


A Change in Priorities

by Seanymphe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Teacher-Student Relationship, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-06-09 01:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 112,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15256635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seanymphe/pseuds/Seanymphe
Summary: Tom Riddle develops a fixation on his new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Granger. What begins as fascination slowly morphs into obsession.





	1. Second Year

The first time he saw her, he thought she was too young to be a teacher. His first thought was that someone needed to tell the transfer student to stop following the teachers around like a lost puppy. With how unruly her hair was, comparing her to a dog wasn't entirely ridiculous.

When she was introduced as the new Defense Against the Dark Professor, he briefly wondered if Dippet was having a midlife crisis and hired her under the impression he might have a chance of fucking her if he severely limited her options. She was far too young to be a teacher, and likely wasn't qualified for the job. He didn't much care about Dippet's personal life, but if this Professor's lack of experience somehow managed to ruin his favorite subject he'd be angry.

Professor Granger, he learned her name, was to be sorted first, and as she walked up to take a seat under the hat, he began to guess what house she'd be in. She wasn't loud or obnoxious enough to be a Gryffindor, and she lacked the vacant expression typical of a Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw, most likely, he deduced.

But she had been under the hat for more than a few seconds now, with no call from the hat. Usually it yelled out immediately, but sometimes it took a bit. He narrowed his eyes to see her, and saw that she was squinting, looking up at the hat on her head with the glare of a person thoroughly annoyed.

What was it saying to her?

He knew that, occasionally, the hat talked to people, but usually only to explain its thought process to them before sorting. That's nothing to get angry about.

But her unladylike scowl was clear and nearly venomous, and he could just tell that whatever the sorting hat was saying was thoroughly irritating her.

Maybe it was telling her Hogwarts doesn't accept squibs even if they are pretty.

"SLYTHERIN!"

_Okay, definitely not a Squib then._

He watched her shift her face back into a highly controlled neutral expression before making her way back to her spot at the staff table, and it occurred to him that she might be a bit peculiar.

*

The second time he saw her, it was the first day of classes. He saw her sit at the front of the room, watching the students gather in. Observing them, he noticed. He could practically see the gears in her brain turn as she looked over the classroom, most likely making little mental notes she'd file away for later use. She seemed like the type to do that -take in as much as she could before choosing to act.

_Definitely not a Gryffindor._

When she began the class, she seemed a bit awkward. Like she had no idea what to say and was just hoping she didn't mess it up. When she finally spoke, her voice was stern in a way that drastically contrasted her tiny body. She asked the class if Professor Merrythought usually taught through the textbooks, and Tom quietly seethed in frustration. Merrythought may have retired unexpectedly over the summer, but that was no excuse to ask students how she should be doing her job.

"That is not how I will be teaching. For this particular subject," she said, and he perked up again, suddenly curious, wondering if he perhaps misinterpreted her initial question, "a theoretical knowledge is not enough. For example, if you've never been able to disarm an opponent in a classroom, your odds of being able to do so in an actual duel are slim. We'll be doing as much hands on learning here as possible. I'm going to help you learn and practice in a safe situation, so that if you are ever in an unsafe situation you are prepared. Understood?"

Tom not only understood, but agreed, and immediately decided he liked this teacher better than his old one. Age aside, she still seemed to know the importance of practicing magic, and that was more than could be said for a lot of other teachers.

Apparently, their first lesson would be on cursed, hexed, and jinxed objects. The class answered a bunch of questions that they would already know if they had so much as opened the textbooks assigned to their year, but as usual, he was surrounded by idiots with no appreciation for magic. Going through this basic information was tedious, but he took it for what it was: a review. A boring review that just covered terminology and basic rules for handling magical objects, but a review nonetheless.

It seemed she was done asking questions, because she pulled a box out from under her desk and he watched as she placed a few seemingly random objects on it. A shoe, a bottle of ink, a spoon, and a flower pot.

"It's important that you not only know that an object can be affected by dark magic, but how to identify and handle it when it has been. So here, I've laid out a few seemingly random objects in front of me. Some of them, though not all, have been tampered with."

Tom could feel his body react with anticipation. This definitely wasn't the type of lesson Merrythought would teach, and he decided at once that he would thoroughly enjoy this class if all lessons continued like this. He'd never gotten to see a cursed object before, let alone actually work with it. Normally the obnoxious gasps of his classmates would annoy him, but he didn't even notice it now.

"Settle down, these are basically harmless. I'd never put my students in danger. They've simply been jinxed for the sake of the lesson. We've gone over how to handle suspicious items properly, and I expect you to remember that."

To Tom, it was obvious that their teacher was not going to bring in anything that would kill them, but the other students repeatedly found ways to lower the standard for average intelligence. After repeatedly explaining the charm used to find traces of dark magic, she allowed each student the opportunity to test it out for themselves.

He remembered the basic lesson she had told them. Afflicted objects could often be identified by the atmosphere of magic around them, though many weren't sensitive(or observant) enough to do so, instead simply thinking that the object seemed strange or otherwise off putting. No directly touching anything suspicious. A charm could be used to search for traces of magic, and should any be found, the wand of the caster would softly vibrate.

It was simple, practical, and useful. He appreciated that.

When it was his turn to test it out, he held his wand out, performed the charm, and glided his wand over each of the objects. As soon as he moved over the ink, he immediately felt his wand start to gently hum against the skin of his palm, until the feeling connected all the way to his fingertips. He knew what it meant. Waving it over the spoon, it continued, as well as with the shoe. But on the last object, the flower pot, it abruptly ended.

He nodded and returned to his seat while he waited for everyone else to finish. When everyone was done, she went around the room collecting various answers on which objects they thought were the afflicted ones. It didn't surprise him that he got it right. Or that most other students got it wrong.

The shoe made anyone who wore it bang their toe against any furniture they passed. The ink would spill on any paper near it. The spoon would alter the temperature of your food before you could eat it. The flower pot was not in any way magical.

Technically, the little jinxes she used were considered "dark magic", but it was just a bit mischievous. An annoying prank, but hardly anything serious. Still, he couldn't help but notice he'd never heard of those before, and wondered if she invented them herself. A stupid use of magic, but it served its purpose, didn't it?

Before leaving, he glanced over to her a final time. He thought that maybe she was more interesting than she initially seemed. Even if she wasn't interesting, she still might be useful.

*

After classes had ended, he approached her door. Mainly, he wanted to see how she would answer questions for him if she wasn't dumbing it down for the rest of the class, but he also wanted to learn anything else he could about her. Any information about a person could be useful, he knew. Gently, he knocked on the wood of the door and waited for a response.

He'd damn near perfected the act of being a polite, orphaned schoolboy. Everything had to be in character, he had learned. He knew he could never make the same mistake he had with Dumbledore if he wanted to be successful.

Just when he thought she might not be there, the doorknob turned and the door cracked open just slightly. Knowing it was permission to enter, he did. He walked in, quietly shut the door behind himself, and walked in front of her.

"Professor, are you busy right now?" He intentionally kept his tone incredibly courteous, doing his best to create a good impression.

"No," she replied, but he knew she was lying. For now, he appreciated that. Pushing the papers she had busied herself with to the side, she motioned for him to take the seat in front of her. He complied. "Mr Riddle, correct? What can I help you with?"

"I had a question about the lesson, but seeing as it is the first day of classes I didn't want to ask it and be late." She nodded, and he continued. "During class, you mentioned that if we do discover an item is cursed we shouldn't touch it or do anything with it because it could be a risk to our safety. How exactly are curses broken, if we shouldn't interact with them?"

He waited patiently for her response, curious to see exactly how much she would explain for him. He knew the answer was complex, depending on a variety of variables, but he didn't know exactly what the answer was. If he wanted to know, he could just go to the library, he knew. But that wasn't the point this time.

He took the moment she wasn't speaking to watch her, and he noticed that she was doing exactly that to him as well. He noticed the way she observed him, as though she were trying to figure out exactly what words would be best received by him.

_Fitting for a Slytherin._

If she was overthinking it, he wasn't going to tell her. He noticed the way her hands began to fidget with her quill, which he knew was often a sign a person was either anxious or deep in thought. He also noticed, though with a bit of confusion, that her knuckles had scars on them. Maybe she was bulimic, or maybe she could throw a punch. Neither seemed particularly likely, but it didn't stop him from internally speculating.

He wasn't exactly sure what lead him to decide that it was more likely she could throw a punch, but that's what his head settled on.

Suddenly, she spoke again, as though she hadn't just spent the last minute thinking it over. Her voice was calm, collected, and the words left her mouth sounding completely natural. It did not, however, sound like the way a person typically talks to a second year student.

She explained that for simple jinxes an average wizard could probably figure it out with a little research, but more dangerous curses would have to be handled by a professional who would combine various types of magic as necessary to dismantle the curse.

Since she wasn't treating him like a second year, he decided to see how she would respond to questions that weren't typical for someone of his age. He asked about how magic combines, and if there were any dangers of attempting so.

Much to his satisfaction, she continued to answer anything he asked, and he didn't mind that they were both late to dinner that night.

He could already tell that she would be very helpful if he needed her to be.


	2. Third Year

Hogwarts had always been the only place he had ever felt at home, and his second year was even better than his first. He had learned quickly that having muggle parents was looked down upon, so whenever he was asked about it he either directed the conversation elsewhere or heavily stressed that his parentage was unknown, could be anything, even _pureblood_.

It was annoying that they all depended so heavily on heritage. That was a big thing in Slytherin -who your family was, how much money they had, how many generations your last name went back. Quite frankly, it was pathetic. To depend so heavily on other people was never a good thing, and especially people who haven't earned it. It bothered him that no one seemed to understand the importance of self sufficience, but it was pointless to argue with people too stupid to understand.

At least stupid people were easy to manipulate. Decent manners, good grades, and a well placed smile was all it took for most people. It was easy.

Though his second year was better than his first, that only made it seem as though it was over that much quicker. Before he knew it, he was back on the train and headed back to Wool's, where he could no longer use magic at all unless he was willing to risk expulsion. Given that Hogwarts was the only place he had any opportunity to learn magic, and the only place he knew where being magical was embraced rather than shamed, disbelieved, or feared(which, to be fair, was rational), being expelled was not an option.

Staying in his room for the entire summer, however, was. For the most part, the other orphans were too afraid of him to bother him. He appreciated that. Mrs Cole only ever came by to tell him it was time for meals and to attempt to bring him to church on Sundays. If she offered him something in return, he'd sometimes go. His friends from school didn't understand how to mail a letter, but they knew how to send owls that came directly to his window.

When Malfoy had sent him an owl inviting him to meet up with a few other people at Diagon Alley, he considered ignoring it. Ever since his first year, he had always chosen to go and get everything himself, alone. It's not like he needed help, and he didn't like having someone looking over his shoulder all the time. Still, he hadn't seen his friends all summer and he couldn't call himself a Slytherin if he didn't understand the importance of networking.

Stupid or not, they were rich and gullible and eventually they'd be worth the hassle of having them around.

He got to Diagon Alley early; He didn't need any pompous brats to watch him buy the secondhand robes the school gave him money for. He was always careful in selecting the ones that looked the most gently used, and so far no one had noticed his robes weren't new(he never so much as let a stain form on a shirt), but in his house nearly everyone came from a background of wealth and arrogance. He'd not let them have any further reasons to think themselves above him.

Over the summer, he had taken the time to ask Mrs Cole for any records she had about his family. Unfortunately, there was nothing more than a birth certificate and an old woman's story of the night he was born. Though he knew his mother's name, he didn't have anything he could use to track her family down. All he knew was he was named Tom, after his father, and Marvolo, after her father. It was still a start, and any information could be useful.

He'd go though the school's records when he got back to Hogwarts, he decided. He'd be able to find something. He'd be able to prove that he wasn't the mudblood his peers has accused him of being, and that he was more worthy to study magic than all of them. Obviously, he already knew that, but he wanted to have proof for anyone who dared question it. They might have their families and their last names and everything they could ever want bought with their parents' money(which, admittedly, was good for a lot of things), but they didn't have power. They couldn't even grasp the concept of true power, let alone have it.

But Tom had always known he was different in that sense. He had always had power, control, that others didn't and he knew how to utilize it. Pure blood and money aside, he would always be stronger than them.

After he had gotten his robes and potions supplies, he went into Flourish and Blotts to grab his school books. Eventually his friends would find him, so he saw no need to go looking for them. As he was gathering the last of his textbooks, he heard someone call him.

"Tom!" He turned around, immediately recognizing Malfoy, Lestrange, Avery, and Mulciber. "We thought you weren't coming. We waited for you up at the entrance but we didn't see you."

The idea of a Malfoy waiting around for anything seemed unlikely, but he didn't comment on it. "I've been here for a few hours now."

"Oh, okay. Well we were just going to grab our books."

Tom nodded, and gestured to the books he'd grabbed already. Before he was done, he browsed through the Dark Arts section. It had a limited selection, but the section was interesting nonetheless. He put the textbooks down, picked up a book about the legalities of dark magic, and began reading.

After a few minutes, Malfoy came back with his textbooks and asked if Tom was ready to go. "You can go if you want," Tom answered, not looking up from his book.

Unsurprisingly, they didn't. Since Tom had taught Malfoy how to use a headache jinx in first year, the boy rarely left his side. Mulciber and Lestrange were more Malfoy's friends at first, but since Malfoy listened to him, they did too. Somewhere along the way he had managed to acquire Avery as well, though truthfully he wasn't sure how. It seemed like he just sort of started following them and since no one told him not to, it eventually became normal.

At the orphanage, he didn't have any use for friends. He didn't really like anyone at Hogwarts either, but having friends could occasionally be helpful.

"Do you want me to buy that for you?" Malfoy asked a few minutes later, and Tom couldn't help but be annoyed by the question.

Obviously, he would like the book, but Hogwarts didn't give him much for school supplies and he definitely didn't have enough to get anything extra. He didn't want to be in debt to Malfoy for anything, even if it was completely inconsequential to him.

"No."

He heard a disappointed hum of acknowledgement from Malfoy as he continued reading. He didn't care. They could leave anytime they wanted. It's not like he was holding them hostage. It was hardly his fault that they couldn't figure out how to manage their legs without someone telling them where to go.

So he continued reading, not much caring about the restlessness of the boys next to him or the passing of time, not until-

"Hey, kid with the book!" He looked up into the face of a burly looking man. Based on his clothing, Tom was able to assume he worked here. He looked up at him questioningly, waiting for him to continue. "Some lady just bought you the book you're holding. You can take it."

"Excuse me?" He frowned, not entirely understanding what he had just been told.

"Some lady," the man repeated, dragging each word out as though he were talking to an idiot, "bought you," he pointed to Tom, "that book," and then to the book, "So you can take it. It's yours now."

For the time being, he decided he would ignore how insolent this man was being. "Who?"

The man sighed, looking exasperated. "Bushy hair, tiny, uh, she just left. Just -the book is yours, okay?" He muttered a few things to himself while he turned away, but Tom wasn't listening.

As though his feet had a mind of their own, he walked out of the store and back into Diagon Alley, looking for the woman in question. 'Bushy hair' and 'tiny' didn't give him much to go on, but it was enough. He saw an unruly mop making its way down the street, and he recognized her.

Last year, he had initially compared her hair to that of a dog's.

"Professor Granger!" He called out, and he knew it was definitely her when she stopped and turned around. He walked towards her until he was standing only a few feet away, and she was looking at him with an expression of confusion, like she hadn't expected him to follow.

"Professor Granger, you bought me a book." It wasn't a question, but the uneasy way the words left his mouth made it sound like one.

He watched as she shifted her weight on her feet and her eyes flickered away every time they met his own. "Yes, Tom, I did. You looked rather invested in it."

"It's an interesting book. But why did you get it for me?" He asked, almost defensively, as he urged her to explain. If it were socially correct, he'd just demand that she define her motives. Unfortunately, it wasn't.

"As I said, you looked like you were interested in it. Consider it an investment in your education. Try not to let me down." Her tone had shifted into something more lighthearted, almost like she was joking, but he could feel her nervousness and he was sure she could feel his own apprehension.

"Thank you" he told her, and he knew he probably sounded as uncertain and confused as he felt, before he turned and quickly walked away.

*

The night back at Wool's, he held the book in his bands like it was a puzzle, and if he just held it a bit longer he'd understand it. He ran his fingertips along the spine, flipped through the pages, and let his eyes follow the words even though he was too distracted to understand a damn sentence of it.

Why had she bought him a book? It wasn't relevant to her class, and it's not like he needed help in that way anyways.

 _Maybe she just felt bad_ , a voice in his head whispered, and he felt his stomach clench in disgust. He hated pity. He had no need for it and he definitely didn't want it.

He had been given nothing his entire life, and yet he had always managed to care for himself. The care at the orphanage was the epitome of bare minimum, but he had not only managed to survive but to excel above his peers. Eventually, when he was no longer a student, he'd excel in everything. He didn't need pity. He didn't need help.

 _Maybe it was just a gift_ , the voice in his head whispered back again.

Usually just the thought of the word 'gift' was enough to send a shudder down his spine.

Every Christmas, people would donate 'gifts' to the orphanage in what he understood as a pathetic attempt to make themselves feel like good people. Every family Mrs Cole ever forced him to meet declined to adopt him, choosing instead to leave him to rot. They'd always leave 'gifts' though, as if that made it better. Like leaving him a toy truck would somehow make him forget that he was living in a dumpster for children.

Eventually, they'd all regret it.

But this wasn't a toy truck. Even metaphorically, it couldn't compare. It hadn't been handed to him out of guilt or sympathy. It wasn't grabbed off the shelf of a toy store with the thought of 'this will work for a little boy'. It wasn't generic. She bought it for him simply because he liked it. Not because she had to, or because it would make her look better.

But what did she want in return? When Slughorn was nice, it was because he wanted to invest in a person. In his first year, he was barely even old enough to hold a wand and Slughorn still tried to pressure him about his future. When Malfoy was nice, it was an attempt to display superiority. In one way or another, it was always political.

He refused to ever be in debt. Not to her, not to Malfoy, not to anyone.

But, then again, it didn't seem like she wanted anything from him. Which was ridiculous, obviously, but it bothered him that he couldn't understand her motives. She had bolted from the store so fast he barely even knew it was her. How could she benefit from this if he didn't even know who he should thank(which, let it be noted: he did not regularly thank people beyond the bare minimum required to be considered polite)? It really did seem like she just wanted him to have it.

Frustrated, he ordered himself to stop thinking about it.

He had the book now. He hadn't asked for it, so she couldn't demand anything of him for it. He never agreed to anything, but it was his now anyways.

Before he had even gotten back on the train to Hogwarts, he had read it cover to cover four times.

*

The beginning of the year wasn't unusual. He had made it through a few months with nothing of significance happening. Usually, he ignored the mindless chatter of the hallways. He didn't much care about Quidditch or what fifth years were caught snogging in which broom closet. However, when he had heard Melanie Lovegood, a fourth year Ravenclaw, mention to Malfoy that Professor Granger was supposedly doing something different in class that day, he listened.

When he had asked Meanie what she meant, she said she didn't know exactly but that she had heard people talking about it. Supposedly something really scary, it would seem.

When he got to class that day and saw a wardrobe sitting in the front of the room, he couldn't help but wonder what the lesson would be. Normally, she didn't bring any actual creatures in. He noticed a quiet rattling coming the dresser, though it seemed he was the only one. No one else had even looked up from their conversations. Not until a massive bang nearly tipped the dresser over, the noise causing half the class to jump in their seats.

He looked back to the Professor, and noticed just a hint of a smirk grace her lips before she willed it back into the neutral expression she preferred. "I see that some of you have noticed that I brought a guest with me today to help with the lesson. Any guesses as to what it is that is in here?"

Surprisingly, people actually did guess. Though their suggestions ranged between unlikely(a trapped poltergeist -if trapping a poltergeist was that easy, they'd have gotten rid of peeves by now) and completely ridiculous(a rabid house elf would be killed, not locked in a wardrobe and used to terrorize children), so it wasn't much of an improvement from the usual silence. "Very creative guesses, but incorrect. What is actually in here is a boggart. Can anyone tell me what a boggart is?"

While he may not have been familiar with the term, another Slytherin tentatively raised her hand. Her answer was short, and most likely oversimplified, he was sure. A shapeshifter that turns into something you fear.

"Correct, but is that all it does?" Most of the class started looking around, trying to see if anyone knew. He had a suspicion that it was a trick question. "Yes, that is all it does. A boggart can't hurt you, only scare you. You're probably wondering why I've brought it here if it's not a dangerous creature you'll need to know how to protect yourself from.

"As stated, a boggart is able to turn into something you fear. More specifically, it takes the form of your worst fear. Now, let's very briefly get one thing straight: fear is not your enemy. Due to its unpleasant nature, fear is often misunderstood. Fear is, in a way, a gift. It protects us, keeps us safe, and warns us of danger. That's a very good thing. Fear can help keep us alive. The problem comes when we let fear control us, which is precisely why we're having this lesson today. To learn to control a boggart is to control your fear. Keeping your head despite fear can be the difference between life or death in some situations."

He liked the idea of that, he decided. Taking fear, something unpleasant, usually a hindrance, and dealing with pragmatically, turning it into a tool to be used.

She continued to explain more about the nature of a boggart, as well as showing the class the Riddikulus charm, before she set up a conjured barrier dividing the class. She explained that they'd each have the opportunity to deal with the boggart privately with her supervision.

Typically, he would volunteer to go first to be involved in these activities. He loved the hands on learning and any time he got to practice magic he would. But this time, he was hesitant.

Nervously, he watched as person after person took their turn to literally face their worst fears. He wondered what they had seen. Some of them looked normal, seeming to be unaffected by it. Some of the other students, well, they didn't. They looked pale, fingers nervously shaking, and their skin had taken on a bit of a sheen caused by anxious perspiration.

He didn't want that to be him.

Still, he needed to practice. He needed to know how to do this, so he would. He reminded himself over and over again in his head _it can't hurt you. Only scare you._ He remembered what Professor Granger had said, about fear being a gift, about how it served a purpose. With that in mind, he forced his legs to push him from his chair and walk him forward. She looked to him for a sign of acknowledgement, or an agreement he was ready, but he refused to look back, keeping his eyes fixed on the wardrobe in front of him. With a flick of her wand, the wardrobe opened.

If he could have known what he would see, it would be easier. He would have been able to prepare then. He had never liked the unknown, hated feeling vulnerable, and watching the thing in front of him half shift between a million different frightening forms wasn't helping. He reminded himself again, _it can't hurt you, it can't hurt you, it can't hurt you_ , waiting for it to take form.

When it finally did, he swore he could feel his blood freeze in his veins, weighing down his limbs, paralyzing him, forcing him to look at the scene in front of him.

 _It can't hurt you_ , she had said. She had been right. The thing in front of him couldn't do anything anymore.

His own lifeless eyes, glass-like and inanimate, stared back at him from the floor, the boggart having taken the form of his own corpse. It's skin was sickly, and though he refused to touch it, he was sure it was cold as ice.

_Dead._

He thought of his mother, and how he never got to even know what she looked like because she had died only moments after he was born.

_Dead._

He thought of how a few years back, there was a measles outbreak in London, and two of the kids at Wool's didn't live through it. Mrs Cole had made all the kids stay in their rooms when they removed the bodies, but he knew what had happened. He knew they had died.

_Dead._

Unable to move, he kept staring at its cold, pale form. _Dead. He was dead and he was going to die and he didn't want to die, but he didn't have a choice because he was dead and-_

Fingers snapped in front of his face, startling him out of the panic.

"Look at me." He snapped his head towards the voice, his eyes falling onto Professor Granger, who had leaned in next to him. "You're perfectly safe here. It's just a boggart; It can't hurt you. You know how to handle this. You're stronger than this. We both know you can do this. Control your fear. Get rid of it."

He closed his eyes and inhaled, willing himself to be in control again. He wasn't dead. It's just a boggart. It was just a boggart, and he was a wizard. He could get rid of it.

He opened his eyes and grasped his wand, determined to control the situation. He looked at the boggart again, this time separating its appearance from his own fears, allowing himself to see it for what it was.

He tried to think of something, anything really, that would be classified as 'funny', just so that the charm would work. His first thought was to change it to someone else's body, but he had a feeling that would bring up a lot of questions he did not want to answer. So he decided instead to remember the ragdoll that Amy Benson had had when he was seven, the way he used to cut it open with the scissors in the art supply bucket, and the look on Amy's face when he had magically made the stuffing look like intestines.

Yeah, that would work.

Raising his wand, he pointed it directly at the body, imagining that stupid doll Amy used to play with, and the look on her stupid face when she saw it.

_"Riddikulus"_

If he hadn't been watching so intently, he'd have missed the way the skin of the corpse started to melt into a fabric, and the way the hair became stringy and red until it resembled bright red yarn. The lifeless eyes replaced themselves with buttons, just as lifeless, though no longer menacing.

He had done it. Professor Granger encouraged him, reminded him, and, admittedly, helped him, but the action was his. The control was his.

In that moment, he was reminded of what it meant to truly feel powerful. Of why he loved magic so much in the first place.

*

After classes ended, the boggart was nearly all anyone was talking about in the Slytherin common room(and, he assumed all the other ones too). Usually, he ignored these conversations, not much caring for anyone's opinions.

But he noticed something out of the little bits and pieces he had actually listened to: Granger hadn't helped anyone else.

"Avery, what did she say when you told her you couldn't do it?"

Avery suddenly looked embarrassed, and Tom wanted to tell him he couldn't care less about his magical incompetence, that he just wanted him to answer the question. "She told me it was alright, that it was a hard charm to get the hang of, and that eventually I'd get it."

He said something else then, but Tom had stopped listening.

 _We both know you can do this_ -that's what she had said. To him, though. Only to him. Not to Avery, and, by the looks of it, not to anyone else. She knew he was different.

Without further thought, he got up and walked out of the common room.

He wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do once he got to her office, but he felt like he had to go there. It felt like strings were dragging him forward, telling him he needed to see her now. She knew he was special. She'd proven that.

He knew he was special too, but until now it seemed he was the only one who did. Slughorn had called him "bright" but he completely missed the point. His brilliance didn't exist to be marketed off of by a talentless old man.

But, once again, Granger had shown that she understood, appreciated it, even, but didn't demand anything in return. She just wanted him to succeed because, like him, she knew he was supposed to.

He stopped a few corridors short of her office when he realized he was being ridiculous. Normally, everything he did was thought out, careful, planned -always controlled. But now he only had a vague notion of what he was going to do.

It frustrated him to know that she could do this, make him so unsure, and it bothered him even more because he was sure it was unintentional. He didn't know what he wanted to say her, and even more, what he should say(he did not want a repeat of the Dumbledore situation).

He couldn't just thank her, could he? _'Thank you for doing your job'_ -No, that's ridiculous. But he felt compelled to say something, or do something, just to show that he knew. That he understood.

He resumed walking until he reached her office door, and knocked. No response. Sometimes, he knew, she ignored the knocks, or just didn't hear them. Hesitantly, he lightly turned the doorknob, wondering if she was even there.

It was locked.

He frowned. Why would it be locked? None of the teachers locked their offices. Their private rooms were hidden and the offices didn't really hold anything personal, so there was no need.

Feeling more than a little curious, he glanced around the corridor. It was empty. _Perfect._ He took out his wand and cast an Alohomora, feeling satisfied when he heard the lock click open.

When he stepped in, the first thing he noticed was that her walls were covered in bookshelves. Where Merrythought had hung portraits, Granger had removed them to create as much room as possible for books. He thought books were a nice improvement; Portraits talk too much.

Browsing through the shelves, he noticed that they were all meticulously organized, having them divided first by subject, and then by author and publication date. She'd notice if he took one, or even so much as moved one, he was sure.

He had just moved to another shelf when suddenly he stopped in his tracks. A subdued banging noise came from the shelf(more accurately, behind the shelf) in front of him, and the books bumped against each other in their places. He raised his wand, thinking that maybe it was another boggart(she did say they have a habit of hiding in dark places), when he heard another noise.

_"Mreow!"_

Scratching. More banging, and then another hideous wail.

He grinned. He had most likely just found the entrance to her room, even if he didn't know how to open it yet. She had a cat. Nothing of value to hide that he could see, but she had to keep her office locked, lest someone hear the desperate wails of this animal and mistakenly let it escape.

Or, she really was hiding something. That was still a possibility.

He heard the clock tower, and he knew he couldn't stay much longer. Any further investigation would have to happen later. If she liked him now, which he was sure she did, she wouldn't anymore if she came in and found that he had broken into her office.

That thought only dragged him back to his original problem, before he was distracted by books and locked doors and screaming cats: what was he doing?

The rational answer would be 'nothing'. If he didn't want to get caught having snuck in here, he would leave immediately. She wasn't here yet, and if waited until she was, the conversation would likely revolve around how much detention he'd be getting for doing this.

He knew he should just leave, _he really did_ , but he didn't want to. That compelling force was still there, and he knew leaving wouldn't get rid of it.

One time in Transfiguration, Mulciber spent twenty minutes helping Longbottom turn a matchstick into a needle. Dumbledore had left a lemon drop on his desk for all his efforts(pitiful as they were).

This wouldn't work in his own situation for a number of reasons; You can't conjure food and stealing from Dumbledore's desk would take so much effort it would defeat its own purpose, not to mention that he highly doubted Granger was stupid enough to eat mysterious objects that appear on her desk simply because they looked like food.

He could apply the same theory, though. A gift to show appreciation for her efforts.

He remembered a book he had read the summer after his first year about unusual forms of communication. It talked about the Language of Flowers, and how the flowers could be used to say things that a person couldn't. It was a way to nonverbally send a message -any message, as each flower had its own meaning- without fear of repercussion. If it weren't for the romantic associations, it would be perfect, but he could work around that.

She had given him a book. He'd give her a flower. They'd be even. She'd understand. She was smart -smarter than Dumbledore, definitely.

He used his wand to conjure a sunflower. Gratitude. Appreciation.

He left it on her desk. He knew she'd understand.


	3. Fourth Year

He knew she had accepted the gift he left her. Not only was the flower on her desk, but she had given it its own vase and displayed it.

Of course she may not have entirely understood, but that didn't matter. She had accepted it nonetheless. He hadn't understood why she had given him a book, but he had accepted it anyways. In that sense, they were the same. It wasn't a matter of obligation, or manners, but a bizarrely genuine interaction.

So he watched her. Unable to control his curiosity about fascinating creature he had stumbled upon, the one that no one except him seemed to acknowledge as such, he decided to study her like an insect in a glass jar. While he didn't allow his interest in her to develop into an obsession(he did still have things to do, after all), he did take time to attempt to learn more about her. He observed her actions, and attempted to decipher the intent behind them.

Trying to understand exactly what motivated her, mostly, because in his mind he kept flopping back and forth between being absolutely sure that, somehow, she was different, and being bitterly disappointed at the notion that she was just like everyone else: boring, dull, and incapable of individualism. Animals who didn't know that's all they were.

People watching wasn't new to him -it was important to understand people if you wished to have control over them- but rarely(as in, only this one time) did he find himself fascinated by someone while attempting to understand them.

It seemed that the more he watched her, the more interesting she got.

Whereas most people kept their wands in their pockets, she kept hers in her sleeve, like she was sure she might need it at any moment. When anyone so much as tapped her shoulder, he would see a hint of panic flash through her eyes. It was always gone so quickly, always schooled back to the facade of polite neutrality she wore, that he was sure no one but him would have noticed it. He noticed the way that her hands would ball into fists that she would have to calm and keep restrained to her sides.

Always being defensive, despite there being no real threat. He'd heard of shell shock, and wondered if it was something like that. There had been bombings in London recently(which the school was  _still_  sending him back to, as well as not allowing him to use magic, despite the potential danger). Perhaps she had come from one of the areas more heavily affected by the war.

That wasn't all he noticed, of course. He noticed that she pulled her sleeves down nearly constantly. He noticed that she spent a lot of time in the restricted section of the library(and, that when she thought no one was looking, she'd jump to reach the books on higher shelves instead of using magic). He noticed that she didn't eat very much at meals, and avoided talking to other Professors.

She was strange. Not in the way that Hagrid was strange(a bumbling idiot with no sense of social grace), or the way that Amarys Lovegood was strange(constantly going on about things that made no sense whatsoever; Tom much preferred his older sister). She was strange in that all his attempts to understand her better only resulted in more questions.

So he continued studying her when he could. He came to her office after classes, bringing whatever questions he could come up with(whether they related to her subject or not), and he was pleased to see that she  _always_ answered him. No matter how dark his questions were, she always answered in a detached, practical manner.

Granted, he hadn't actually asked her anything particularly disturbing( _yet_ ), but considering how squeamish his other teachers were about anything dark, it was still significant.

Aside from his interesting she was, stealing her cat had been an accident.

Breaking into her office hadn't been an accident, but he never had any intentions of taking the cat. That would have been impractical and unnecessary, which is exactly why he did  _not_ do it intentionally.

After searching her office, again, he locked the door behind him and left it just as he had found it. Or he thought he had, until he walked an additional three feet and nearly tripped.

Looking down at his feet, he saw that the orange tabby cat that often slept in her office had wrapped itself around his legs. It looked up at him and meowed.

Animals had never been a problem for him in the past. Ever since he had been a child, he had been able to influence them easily. Actually, that was one of the first things he had told Dumbledore - _"I can make animals do what I want without training them."_ Usually, it was a simple process. You will your thoughts into the brain of the animal, and it listens and does what you tell it to.

On rare occasions it didn't work, but that was not typical.

He looked down at the cat, which was still rubbing against his legs and attempting to get his attention, and tried to tell it to go wait by the door it came out of. Eventually, Granger would come back and let it in. Or she wouldn't, but that was hardly his problem.

It blinked.

He tried again.

It rubbed its head against his leg again.

He glared at it, wondering why it wasn't listening, and picked it up underneath its arms, holding it in front of him. "You're not a good listener." Though it couldn't reach, it began to tense its paws that were outstretched towards him, kneading despite its inability to grasp anything. "I don't like you," he told it, as though somehow that would change its mind and make it go back to its room. It purred.

 _I could always just put it back_ , he thought, only to have the idea immediately shut down when a prefect on his evening rounds turned the corner.

Standing in the middle of a corridor talking to a cat that wasn't even his was not a good way to build a reputation -not one that would serve him, anyways- so he put the cat down and continued walking, the little fuzzball practically licking his heels as it followed.

Normally, he spent his evenings studying in the library, but he had a feeling Granger would be there and he didn't fancy the idea of explaining to her exactly why her cat was not in its room, and/or why it was following him.

 _No, definitely not the library,_ he decided as he made his way through the corridors, stopping once he reached a tapestry that he knew concealed a hidden alcove and placing himself inside.

Slughorn had once told him he had an "uncanny ability to know things he shouldn't." Tom smiled politely rather than telling him that people in this school had a tendency to talk in hallways without checking they were alone first(or, if they did, not checking thoroughly). Though the alcove concealed him completely, he could still hear everything going on outside him.

He stayed there, hidden away, going over homework for various classes(he was determined to get an 'O' on his transfiguration essay, despite Dumbledore's apparent reluctance to ever give him more than an 'E') with Granger's cat curled up, sleeping beside him.

He only decided he needed to leave when the clock tower went off, reminding him curfew was in an hour. He put his books and scrolls back into his bag, and gave the cat a final glance.

"You really need to go back to your mum."

It lazily opened one eye before settling back in.

"You're a lazy, useless, terrible animal, and why she wants you is beyond me, but, apparently, she does. She'll be upset if you run away."

It didn't move. Not that it would understand English, but he felt the need to lecture it anyways.

Back at the orphanage, he had hung Billy Stubb's rabbit from the rafters, but that had been different. He was mad at Billy(and Mrs Cole for not letting him keep a snake), not the rabbit itself. He had no reason to do anything to Granger's cat, other than that it was being ungodly annoying and following him. Granger would probably want it back.

 _Maybe she'll give me house points or something_ , he thought to himself as he picked the cat up under its arms and held it as he exited the alcove. It purred against his chest.

"You shouldn't be happy," he told it, "Granger is going to be mad at you for running away. For all you know, she might skin and cook you." It crawled up his shoulder and rubbed its head under his chin.

He knocked on the door to Granger's office with one hand and tried to restrain the cat with the other. It continued to crawl all over him, rubbing under his jaw and probably leaving cat fur all over him.

The door opened. Granger gasped, looking thoroughly alarmed.

"I believe this is yours?" He said, pulling the cat off him.

"Riddle," she said, looking at him, then the cat, then back to him. "I, uh... yes. Yes she's mine." She reached to take her and he happily obliged. She probably thought the way she was checking the cat over for signs of harm was subtle, but it wasn't. He resisted the urge to scoff and tell her  _no, I didn't torture your precious feline_.

"Thank you," she said, stumbling over the words a bit like she wasn't sure what was going on.

"Your welcome, Professor," he replied, nodding curtly.

She slammed the door in his face.

 _Well, that definitely could have been better,_  he thought,  _at least I wasn't caught._

* * *

 

If she had suspected him of stealing her cat, she didn't show it. Outwardly, she behaved no different towards him than she had before, for which he was grateful.

It wasn't unusual for him to spend a lot of time in the library, even when Granger wasn't there(though she usually was). The Hogwarts library had an almost never-ending supply of information, and he only had seven years(minus the summers) to get through everything useful.

He spent most time going through old records(though he had  _finally_  found proof of his magical heritage, he still wanted to know more about his family) and the restricted section.

One day he was looking through the darker sections when he ran into Granger. When she saw the book he was holding, he subtly shifted the cover. "What are you reading?" She asked.

No one questioned the books he took(he had a pass to get whatever he wanted, courtesy of Slughorn, but he'd still rather people not become suspicious of him), though, if they had, he knew that he could just say they were for a DADA project and no one would be the wiser.

Except Granger, obviously.

The fact that it had been  _her_ who asked made the situation a bit less simple. He couldn't just ignore a question from a teacher, given that he was trying to maintain his reputation, nor could he think of a lie that would adequately explain why he insisted on reading about dark magic. Rather than answer, he held the book or so she could see, to show he didn't think it was worth hiding. Hopefully she wouldn't question it.

She pursed her lips when she saw the title, and he felt a slight sense of dread as he waited for a response. "Give me one second," she said, before she went a bit farther into the restricted section and pulled out another book. "This one," she said, handing him the book, "goes more in depth on the science behind common curses, explaining how they work, rather than simply explaining what they can do. If you want to learn about this stuff, it's helpful to be able to actually understand what is happening rather than just the end result."

She wasn't taking it away, nor was she scolding him about how he should spend his time learning something else. She wasn't even turning a blind eye; She was actually  _encouraging_ him to learn about whatever he wanted without restriction.

He took the book. She was right, this one definitely was better.

* * *

 

He stopped asking the librarian for recommendations, instead asking Granger almost exclusively.

She always knew what books would be best(apparently, because she herself had read them), and he always brought her any questions he found(even if they weren't DADA related).

Even on the second to last day of term, he found himself in her office with one of the books she recommended.

"Professor, I was reading this book and," he opened the book and showed her a page, "it says here that the Unforgivable Curses have uses beyond what you'd expect, but it doesn't specify what they are. Do you know?"

Her eyes scanned the page before flickering back to him. "It's saying that you should focus on the effects of the curses themselves, not on what people have decided their uses are. Name one of the curses and I'll give you an example."

He didn't hesitate. "Avada Kedavra."

Some people got a bit squirmy at even the  _mention_  of the curse using its formal name. She didn't seem even the slightest bit affected.

"Avada Kedavra is often called the Killing Curse -which is correct- but when you ask people what it does, most people will just say 'it murders someone'. This is incorrect." She searched his face for understanding before continuing. "'Murder' is a specific word with a specific definition. The Killing Curse does not specifically murder someone, it kills them. You can kill someone in self defense, or you can execute them for a crime. Neither of those fit the definition of murder.

"Now, with Unforgivables, intention matters. You do have to really mean them. But that doesn't have to inherently limit their uses. You have to truly want to kill a person for the curse to work, but why you want them dead doesn't matter so much as the fact that you do. More than anything, it's about willing the magic to do as you wish."

"So what about the other ones?" He knew he was speaking much faster than usual, but he also knew she understood. It was an interesting conversation, and he wanted all the information he could get as quickly as possible.

"Well, the Imperius Curse is a bit different in that there is no 'standard motive' for it," she began, "but the Cruciatus Curse is a bit more complicated. You know that the effect is unbearable pain, but do you know what it's typically used for?"

He nodded and said, "punishment or interrogation."

And she smiled at him. Actually smiled, like she was proud of him for knowing.  _Of course she would be,_ he thought, because she, like him, wanted to know everything, hence why she had read seemingly every book in the library, and was disappointed that no one else shared the same drive.  _Of course this would please her._

"Correct, but those are both very poor uses, even if they are commonly made mistakes." He tilted his head, prompting her to continue. "There's always been debate on how effective corporal punishment is. While it shows to have the desired effect short term, long term it has been shown to create more problems. That's a whole other topic though. As for interrogation, honestly it's just stupid to use it then. There's really not another way for me to put it."

_Interesting opinion._

Leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest, he looked at her. "What makes you say that, Professor?"

The way he saw it, this was a character test that would have one of three possible results. One, she would say it was 'stupid' because it was 'wrong', thus proving she had no independent thinking skills. He didn't expect her to go that route. Two, she would say it's stupid because the risk outweighs the potential benefit. This would be correct or incorrect depending entirely on context. Or three, she would have an actual reason as to why it wouldn't be a good idea, unrelated to any possible circumstances.

"It's ineffective. There is no way to predict how a person will respond to it. Some people," something about the way she said that, ' _some people'_ , seemed odd, almost personal, but he took no time to question it, "will simply lie through the pain. You can torture them all you want, but you'll break them into insanity. Once they've gone mad, you can't trust anything they say. It could be the truth, or it could be complete gibberish and you'd not be able to tell the difference."

_Option number three, then._

A hint of a grin graced his face before he pulled it back into its usual mask of neutrality. "So if not punishment or interrogation, what would you use it for?"

She took a moment to think about it, before she just barely smirked and said, "Ironic, really, but it could be used to deescalate a situation." He raised an eyebrow, and mimicked her expression.

_Really? Most people would consider torture the opposite of deescalating._

She must have sensed his skepticism.

"Think about it, okay? Stunning and disarming spells can both be blocked, whereas an Unforgivable can't. If you were in a situation where your past attempts to stun or disarm were blocked, you could still theoretically throw a Crucio. If you managed to hit your target, they'd fall, drop their wand, and be unable to harm you. Once they're down and unable to block any oncoming spells, you could stun them.

"It would immediately put a stop to it without bloodshed (or further damage, assuming you don't hold the spell longer than necessary). In extreme situations, the Ministry has allowed Aurors to use Unforgivables, but typically they mean the Killing Curse. It's possible that this would be more effective and less violent, despite the nature of the curse itself."

_That's... admittedly brilliant. And if the Aurors weren't too squeamish to use it, it could save the lives of people under the Imperius curse, as well as keep suspects alive for interrogation._

He didn't hide how pleased he was with her response, genuinely smiling at her. "Using unforgivable dark magic, but for the greater good? Are you sure you're not a Gryffindor?"

 _Of course she's not._   _Dumbledore would never approve of something like that._

Logic before ethics. Reason before feelings. He appreciated that she understood that magic of any type, of all types, was a tool to be used and a skill to be mastered. 'Dark' magic could be used to save lives. A simple wingardium leviosa could be used to levitate someone off a cliff. Magic was magic, with near limitless uses.

He wondered if that was why she didn't talk much to the other professors. A fear of judgment, perhaps, because obviously they wouldn't understand. It also wouldn't surprise him if talking to them simply bored her senseless so she chose to avoid it.

She smiled back. "Nearly positive."

Even as he was on the train leaving, he thought about what else she could teach him that the other teachers either wouldn't, or couldn't.

* * *

 

Over the summer, he developed a routine simply for the sake of his sanity. Anything to try and forget that he was here, left to rot in a orphanage, instead of out learning or really doing  _anything_ that could be considered worthwhile.

He got up at the same time he did during the school year, shaved(as much as a fourteen year old could, anyways), showered, and had breakfast before many of the other orphans were even awake. During the day, he read and reread his old textbooks, just to give himself a way to still be connected to magic. In theory, he could ask Malfoy to send more books, but his pride wouldn't let him. He didn't dare to so much as touch his wand, lest he be tempted to use it.

It wasn't worth being expelled over.

At night, if he couldn't sleep, he read through the book Granger had given him the year before. Rereading the words over and over again until they started to blur together, he found the familiarity calming. He picked up the habit over the school year, and found that it worked well enough back at Wool's as well. It was also helpful that the book listed legal consequences of using magic, because he needed frequent reminders when his anger began to get the best of him(or when he began to panic, though he'd never admit to doing so).

Living at Wool's was never enjoyable, but it had become particularly painful since he had started school and only got worse each summer. It didn't help that with the muggle war going on, he felt utterly vulnerable. Hogwarts didn't stay open over the summer, and he couldn't help but feel that was unfair, given the current state of the muggle world.

For the children of wizarding families, the war was easy to ignore even over the summer. Having the privilege of their guardians using magic(despite not deserving or appreciating it), they didn't worry about rationing. They had wards on their homes, giving them a sense of security should they ever think about the possibility of being bombed. The orphanage offered no such protection, and because of the Ministry laws against underage magic, Tom knew he wouldn't be allowed to defend himself with magic unless there was a literal gun to his head.

He let out an actual sigh of relief when he got his school list and knew it was time to go to Diagon Alley.

* * *

 

The year started the same as it always did, and he didn't waste time before getting back into reading. He had only just begun to get into the interesting subjects(with Granger's assistance, because no other teacher would be willing to help him), and he knew his time at Hogwarts was limited. He didn't have time to waste.

When he came across the term 'Horcrux' while reading, he knew he needed to know more. He had never heard the term before, and based on what he found about it, it was likely it wouldn't even be  _mentioned_  in the other books.

It was described to be an object in which a person has hidden part of their soul, creating immortality.

Supposedly, only one horcrux had ever been documented to have been made, and the man who made it(Herpo the Foul) disappeared after its creation. It is unconfirmed if his immortality was genuine, though it is assumed that he is still alive somewhere(likely living under a different name, having assumed a new identity).

Though Tom refused to admit his fear, the idea of death as an inevitability had always been incredibly troubling for him. He knew magic was near limitless(arguably, it  _was_ limitless if used properly) and there just had to be some way or another to opt out of death. If this book was correct, then there was. A horcrux had to be made through murder, but if he had the ability to trade someone else's life for the promise of his own safety there was no question from him as to whether or not he would do it.

He would, and he'd do it without hesitation. And, if he  _could_ make more, to solidify his immortality, he would do that too.

If he knew, without a doubt, that it world work, anyways.

Risking one's soul was obviously dangerous, especially given that it was possible to destroy a horcrux. Though the science of souls was only speculated and theoretical, it was known that a soul is what keeps a person alive and themselves. Their sentience, essentially. There would be a lot to lose, should you decide to risk splitting it.

The book never mentioned the effects on the soul, nor how many times it could be split. It would be just plain stupid to jump into this head first without knowing all the possible outcomes.

But no other books had the answers he needed. He knew they wouldn't, but he looked anyways. One book defined the word 'horcrux' as "too evil to speak of" and never mentioned it again. The others(with the exception of the book he actually found the term in) didn't even bring up the topic.

That wasn't good enough. He'd need to ask someone. Problem was, it's a banned topic at Hogwarts. If the darkest books in the restricted section wouldn't mention it, it was common sense that Hogwarts would have rules against teaching such a thing. Even if it wouldn't be taught, someone might still know though, and perhaps be willing to answer a few questions about it. There was only one  _someone_ he could think to ask.

Granger had answered all his questions before. She had never told him 'no' when he wanted to know something. Perhaps it would be different if she truly believed him interested in crafting such a thing, but he wouldn't frame it that way. He'd make it sound like nothing more than a morbid curiosity. A theoretical, purely academic, question.

She'd help him, he knew.

* * *

 

Sometimes when he had questions, he didn't even bother to knock on her office door. Which he knew was rude, but she didn't seem to mind so he usually didn't care. But this time he did knock, because this time needed to be carefully executed. If he seemed anything less than an innocent, academically motivated schoolboy, she might shut down the conversation and he wouldn't get what he needed from her.

So he decided to play the part to the best of his abilities. He gently knocked on the door, and after only a moment she opened it.

"Professor, I really hope I'm not bothering you, but I was hoping I could ask you about something." Everything from his tone to his word choice was intentional. He needed to sound polite, and, to a certain extent, submissive. He needed to let her feel in control so she would let her guard down and say things she definitely shouldn't.

Her polite smile reflected his own as she said, "of course, Tom," and invited him in. He sat across from her and took only a moment before speaking.

"Professor, I was in the library the other night and I came across a term while reading that I didn't quite understand. I want to know more, but it's quite a, uh, dark topic and another professor might misunderstand. I thought, well, it's just- if anyone would be able to explain it to me, it would be you, Professor."

"I see. What is it that you're not understanding?" She asked. Her expression was blank, which, while not exactly a good sign, wasn't a bad one either. He decided to continue.

"The term I found, I believe it's called a horcrux. I don't quite understand what it means."

"Yes, you do," she swiftly corrected him, and he forced himself to remain calm. "You do know what it means, and you're also fully aware that it's a banned topic here at Hogwarts. You could be expelled for asking about it, and I could lose my job for telling you anything. If we're going to be risking that, let's make it worth it. What's the question you actually want to ask?"

Initially, he panicked, because clearly he had been caught lying to a teacher and about a topic that they both knew was banned. He could lie about knowing it was banned, but it still wasn't an ideal situation. But then she said 'let's make it worth it'. She still would help him. She knew what this was, it seemed, and she was willing to proceed.

Suspicious, but it wouldn't deter him if it meant he still got what he needed from her.

"They're supposed to keep you from dying. Do they work?"

"No," she dead panned.

And just like that, the plan he had mentally built started crumbling. All it took was a single word.

"No?"

What is the point of marking one if they don't work? There had to be more than that.

"No," she repeated, "and I strongly suggest against making one."

Now the conversation was getting a little less than innocent, and he needed to get it back under control, back to the way he had planned it, before he said anything that could potentially incriminate him later.

"Of course not, Professor, I can assure you that this is entirely academic. I would never do such a thing," he attempted to assure her.

She looked down and gently shook her head before looking back up to him and saying, "yes, you would. You're terrified of death and, being a true Slytherin, would literally do anything to avoid it."

Her word choice thoroughly annoyed him, and he did his best to restrain himself from reacting. She had just said she believed he'd kill if he had to, and while she wasn't wrong, it was still best she not think of him that way. But the way she said "terrified" was in and of itself infuriating -he was not terrified. She made it sound like he was a little girl running from a spider, and not an ambitious wizard attempting to overcome death.

"I appreciate your concern,  _Professor_ ," he stressed her title, because that's what she was, a person hired to teach him, a person who was acting like she knew and understood him when she didn't, "but the pity is quite unnecessary."

While she had previously been sitting perfectly straight in her chair, she now leaned forward and rested her head on her hand. Tilting her head slightly, she asked, "do you often confuse pity and admiration, Tom?"

He leaned forward as well, watching her the way one might watch a caged animal who had just done something intriguing.

With that single sentence, she had managed to ask him the single most condescending question he had ever heard, while also managing to compliment him in the process. Whether she had meant to or not, she had implied that she admired him, or at the very least admired certain traits of his, immediately after she had admitted believing him capable of cold blooded murder. And the only way she could have been more casual about it would have been if she had offered him tea.

_Interesting, indeed._

She cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable with the tension(the same tension he himself had just started enjoying), and spoke up again. "Any further questions?"

He dropped the rehearsed tone he had been using before, deciding he didn't need it. "You said that you wouldn't recommend making one -why not? If it just wouldn't work, you're not losing much."

"Look at the ghosts -all that's left of them is a soul. While they're certainly not nothing, they are very much limited. Imagine being even less than that. They still have their memories and their sanity, but if you were to split the soul it could affect that. Not to mention, if you were to somehow get a body back following the destruction of your old one, you could still die again. Horcruxes don't create true immortality, they just buy you more time until death. If that's what you need, there's other ways to do that without resorting to self mutilation."

She saw it as self mutilation, not self preservation. He didn't particularly agree, if it worked, but that wasn't what he took from what she said.

"Other ways?" He had never heard of any other ways. She nodded. "What other ways?"

She wet her lips before speaking, voice deceptively calm. "Have you heard of Nicolas Flamel?"

Philosopher's Stone, as she explained it, was a stone capable of turning any metal to gold, but more importantly it could create the elixir of life, preventing a body from dying and capable of resurrecting an earth bound spirit. You would need to keep the elixir on you at all times, he argued. It wouldn't be logical or practical to be dependent on it, and horcruxes were more sustainable.

She explained that horcruxes could be destroyed and that they didn't create genuinely immortality either, but that by using the stone you could buy time to explore the possibilities of how to achieve it without having to sacrifice yourself in the process, and that while you could always make another stone you can't create a new soul.

Eventually he stopped arguing in favor of horcruxes, admitting to himself that maybe he got too invested in that idea too early, but continued with questions about the Philosopher's Stone. She was right about it sounding less risky, he decided. She recommended a list of books about alchemy and several about theoretical immortality, and he made a note to find them in the library the next day.

It was past midnight when they finished. She tried to instruct him to get back to bed with a disillusionment charm, but he shook his head. "I know what I'm doing," he told her, reveling in the half second where her expression took on a scandalized look before she rolled her eyes and told him to take care of himself.

He thought it was a bit funny that she apparently believed him capable of doing things so disgusting and perverse they were hardly written about, and yet she still felt the need to tell him to take care of himself. As if he would be the one who would need it.

Rather than go back to bed immediately, he disillusioned himself, stopped by the library for the books she had recommended, and finally stopped back by her office.

Every time he thought of what she had said, he shuddered. He thought of the ghosts, and how they were forever stuck watching but unable to  _do_ anything, and he imagined to his own horror what it would be like to be less than them. He thought of everything he wanted to accomplish and how none of it would be possible if he were driven to madness. He thought of how even if he split his soul, all those little bits could be(and inevitably would be, given time) destroyed.

No, Granger was right. The horcruxes, while being an intriguing theory, would be best left unpracticed. At least until he was able to know more and possibly experiment. But for now, it wasn't worth everything he had been working towards. He was willing to sell his soul for immortality, not life as he planned it.

And now he wouldn't risk that mistake, because Granger had helped him. Again.

The last time she had helped him, he left her a flower. Unlocking her door, he slipped in and decided to leave her another one now. After all, she liked the last one, didn't she? She displayed it, meaning she probably did.

So he conjured her another one. This time, a white violet, signifying candor and honesty.

Rude as it was of her to be so frank about it, she had been immensely helpful and he wanted her to know that.

* * *

 

DADA started one day with an announcement that Hogwarts would have a dueling club, with Granger telling everyone to sign up if they wanted to be involved. Tom didn't even have to think about it to decide he wanted to join. Not that the school would ever allow real, interesting(i.e.  _violent_ ) duels, but practice in any form would be beneficial.

As she finished and instructed the class to open their books, Malfoy nudged him. "Are you signing up then?"

He looked over. "Aren't you?"

Tom held back a smirk as Abraxas pursed his lips. "Yeah, 'course," he said, though it was obvious he had only just decided that now. "I'll tell the others then?"

Tom nodded. Even if the school duels weren't great, he could always convince his friends to practice somewhere without supervision(Hogwarts did have a lot of unused classrooms, after all), but he'd want them to at least be decent. Otherwise, there wouldn't be a point.

Later that week was the first dueling club meeting. Granger stood at the front of the Great Hall, which had been emptied specifically for this. It didn't surprise him to see that a decent fraction of his year had decided to attend; The only other magical competition at Hogwarts was Quidditch, which he found to be overrated. At least dueling was useful.

Granger spoke up.

"Welcome to the dueling club. Unless stated otherwise, meetings will be held weekly in this same location at this same time. The rules for now are quite simple. First and foremost: Nothing harmful. You'll be blocking hexes and jinxes only, no dangerous dark magic. You can annoy each other all you like, but no deliberate injuries."

He noticed that she said no  _deliberate_ injuries, which gave him a bit more space between "acceptable" and "expulsion". He might not be able to blow someone's legs off, but if they were to fall and break one, that could be easily debated as accidental.

"Second, at least for now, practice duels will be one on one only. No seconds, and no asking for your friends to help you. Keep it fair. After you've had a few weeks to practice, I'll bring out a platform and we can try doing it more traditionally. But for now, I want to make sure you understand the basic technique.

"Finally, duels are over either when one person is disarmed, stunned, or when I say so. Following these instructions is not optional."

Then she instructed everyone to break off into pairs, reminded them these weren't serious duels, and let them begin practice.

Tom had chosen to pair off with Dolohov, deciding he would be the best to practice with. Malfoy was decent with flinging curses, but his defensive magic was so slow that it would only take one shot to finish it completely, even with the rules Granger set in place. Nott was better with shielding, but his offense needed work that Tom didn't particularly want to help him with at the moment.

Nonverbal magic was usually only taught in NEWTs level DADA, but he had been attempting to learn it already. So far he had only managed more simple magic with it, but he decided this was the perfect time to practice.

Dolohov was surprisingly good, and able to block everything he had thrown verbally, but he hadn't been expecting the nonverbal disarming charm that sent his wand flying across the room.

A victorious smirk made its way to Tom's face, only to be replaced by a look of confusion as he turned towards where the Gryffindors had decided to duel, as he suddenly heard someone shout out a slicing hex(which definitely broke the first rule that Granger had put in place, no questions about it).

It was incredibly unlikely that the curse would have hit him, of all people, seeing as he was halfway across the Great Hall and there were about a dozen other people it  _should_  have hit first, but it didn't. The kid tripped, sending the hex hurling across the room, where it grazed Tom's shoulder.

He didn't cry out in pain, or even stumble, but he knew it had hit him when he raised a hand to the sharp pain and was met with what he knew had to be blood. Inhaling, he attempted to remain calm.

Granger used her wand to send a spark through the room, calling attention back to her. "Fifteen points from Gryffindor. You're all dismissed. Riddle, please sit down." He watched a dozen nervous kids scramble away as he forced himself to sit down in one of the chairs that had been placed by the wall.

Obviously, he was angry. Angry, because that idiot had been in possession of a wand for four years and still was too stupid to hold it properly. Angry, because, once again, he was paying for the incompetence of others. Angry, because he had actually been doing what he was supposed to and he still got hurt.

He was angry because, minor as this may be, it was yet another example of how life was unfair no matter how much better he was compared to those around him.

By the time Granger had approached him, every student was gone and it was just the two of them left.

He knew he needed to calm down. Magic leaves traces in its environment, he knew, and it was hard to control it when he was angry. The first year he had been at Hogwarts, he accidentally lit the common room run on fire when Lestrange had asked him about his family(more specifically, had questioned if he was a mudblood). Even Mrs Cole, a muggle, could feel when he was upset based on the magic alone. "A bad aura" is what she had called it, right before she questioned if he needed to see a priest.

He couldn't afford to have any outbursts at Hogwarts. Not if there were witnesses. So he grit his teeth and did his best to do nothing, to not react at all, because he felt like if he so much as turned his head he might lose control and be sent away.

"I'm going to need you to let me look at that," Granger said, referencing the wound that was beginning to bleed through his clothes. He didn't respond, but removed his outer robe.

Her fingers reached out and tore the fabric of his shirt. "I'll fix your shirt in a minute," she said quietly, "I just need to get a better look here."

Despite his anger, he still managed to focus enough to observe her. She was doing her best to stay calm, he noticed. Her breathing was completely controlled, too controlled to be entirely natural, and her hands shook just slightly.

"It's just a scrape," she said, voice barely above a whisper, "it won't even scar. Stay here, I'll grab the disinfectant and then I'll heal it. You'll be fine."

She was definitely terrified, though she was concealing it quite well. And she probably thought she had good reason to be, given that she had indirectly told him she viewed him as capable of murder. Now that she was alone with him, she probably thought he might see her as an acceptable outlet for his anger.

In this case, she was wrong, but it was still a bit odd to think that this is how she'd react even if that were the case. Continuing as though nothing is wrong, despite her fear and sense of danger. Either she was a unique variation of stupid, had no survival instinct, or had weighed her options and still decided this was the best one.

She quickly got to her feet, grabbed the bottle of disinfectant and poured the solution onto a cotton pad.

Cotton pad in hand, she looked back to him. Her expression was blank, not portraying any expression, but the glint of fear in her eyes gave her away. Frightened little doe eyes looked back at him, and he saw right through the act of nonchalance she was putting on.

If he wanted to, hurting her would probably be easy. He was younger than her(though by how much, he wasn't sure. He had mistaken her for a student initially, so he no longer trusted himself to accurately judge her age), but he was male and already larger than her. She'd fight back, he had no doubt, but she was small and wouldn't be difficult to overpower if they were using physical strength alone. If they were dueling, well that would certainly be more exciting.

Still, it didn't matter if it would be easy. "Easy" would be boring, and harming her in the current circumstances would be unwise. Not to mention that he didn't actually  _want_  to hurt her anyways, even if she seemed to think he did. Generally she was right to be paranoid, but in this case she was wrong. For her, there was currently no danger.

"I'm just going to clean this now, okay? If it hurts, you can hold onto my shoulder."

Disinfectant had a tendency to sting, he knew, which was why she was warning him it might hurt. But what interested him what that she had offered to allow him to touch him.

A grip to the shoulder usually wouldn't be anything special. It's not romantic like a hand to the waist, or friendly like a hug. It's only mildly more intimate than a handshake. For most people, anyways.

But Granger doesn't let people touch her. Even the slightest touch seems to pain her, and she appears to do everything she can to avoid it. But here, she was willing to make an exception, to sacrifice her own comfort, to placate him.

Gently pressing the solution over the cut, she was careful not to add more pressure than necessary.

He decided not to waste the opportunity and, though he wasn't fond of touching others either, placed a hand on her shoulder. She had, perhaps unknowingly, given him permission to experiment and test her reactions.

She tensed under his touch, but he didn't take offense. He had been expecting her to be uncomfortable, and decided not to question or attempt to halt it, but instead to watch how she would handle her anxiety.

When faced with what they assume to be a dangerous predator, a normal person would resort to fight or flight. In this instance, neither of those would work in a literal sense. She'd have to resort to an equivalent. She could send him to the infirmary to put distance between the two of them(flight), or she could keep a hand on her wand to defend herself if need be(fight). She was doing neither.

He watched as she tended to his wound with a gentle touch, but her face was stern and analytical. Like she had detached from her environment to focus solely on the task at hand.

Deciding to see how she would respond to being broken out of that mindset, he spoke up.

"Why disinfect it if you're just going to heal it anyways?"

It was the first thing he'd said this entire time.

She blinked, taking only a moment to collect herself before replying, "this is a wizarding disinfecting solution, not a muggle one. It prevents scarring, but more importantly it makes sure that everything is clean before the wound closes. Common misconception, but infection is still possible if you don't clean it first."

Two of the things he hated most in the world were being underestimated and being wrong. ' _Common misconception'_  -he had no desire to be common or to hold a misconception. Mentally, he made a note to study healing magic.

Her eyes flickered back to him, having lost the look of hunted prey. She didn't look scared anymore.

Grabbing her wand, she muttered the incantation. Having never seen a wound heal magically before, he found himself watching as his skin stitched itself over the laceration, seeming to melt together until it looked as though it were never injured. Suddenly, she looked up, her expression noticeably brightened as she was content with her work. "Better?"

He nodded in response, and reached for his robe. The light seemed to leave her face.

"It was just an accident, you know."

If it hadn't been damn near silent, he wouldn't have heard her. But not only did he hear her despite her hushed tone, he had heard what she had meant to say: she was practically pleading with him to spare the idiot boy who had been responsible for this.

It made him angry to think that she'd even want to protect him when clearly he deserved it, but he reasoned with himself. It was her job, and her responsibility. If anything were to happen, she would be the one held accountable(unless of course, Tom made sure it wouldn't be connected to her in any way, which as a courtesy to her he would).

Still, she wouldn't want that. Despite her apparent bravery(or bizarre stupidity), she was still female. Tom knew women tended to have an irrational aversion to violence. She wanted him to simply let the boy go, and to let it be forgotten about.

If that's what she wanted, he was in a position to give it to her. She had been exceedingly helpful; She certainly deserved some sort of reward for her efforts. But if he were to do it for her, he decided, he wanted it acknowledged.

"I know. I'm alright." He made sure his voice sounded soft and gentle, as to not frighten her further, and to tell her that, yes, he was listening, and yes, he understood.

She repaired his shirt and robe, politely dismissing him. By now he knew she more or less had a routine, and she'd stop by the library before getting dinner. Classes were over and the hallways were mostly empty now(they'd be more packed in a few hours). If he wanted to stop by her office, now was the best time to do so.

He stopped at her door, checked the halls to be sure the coast was clear, and the pointed his wand at the door. _"Alohomora."_

Nothing happened.

He tried again. Still, nothing. It wasn't the spell -she had changed the locking method on her door.

Not knowing if he should be offended that she was trying to keep him out or excited that she felt the need to pose a challenge, he backed away from the door.

Last year, he had stayed up late reading in the common room one night when Alphard and Orion Black stumbled in, half empty bottle of fire whiskey in hand. Remembering the incident, he formed an idea.

_They stared at him. Obviously, they hadn't expected anyone to be up. Orion attempted to subtlety shift the bottle behind his back, where it couldn't be seen. It was already too late for that._

_"Where did you get that?" Tom asked, noticing the way the two boys looked at each other, attempting to formulate an answer without actually voicing any ideas. "If I wanted to tell a prefect, I would have gone and gotten one already. I'm simply curious -it would have been awfully dangerous to go down to Hogsmeade this late."_

_The boys visibly relaxed, and began to tell him grand tales about all the times they'd snuck into Slughorn's liquor cabinet(or, as they put it, closet, because apparently Slughorn had an obscene amount of alcohol). He laughed and smiled along, filing the information away for later use._

_"So he doesn't even keep it locked, then?" He asked, turning to Orion._

_"Oh, he does," Alphard was the one who answered, mischievous grin on his face, "but there isn't a locking spell published that this can't get through."_

_He held up a shining black key._

Tom made his way towards the Slytherin common room, and then up to the boy's dorms. Knocking on the door for sixth years, he waited. Alphard was the one who answered the door, shirtless, and Tom could hear a girl giggling as the door opened. He ignored it.

Black opened his mouth to speak, but Tom interrupted him. "I need the key you use to break into Slughorn's."

Another inane giggle could be heard and Black looked back into the room, then back to Tom, before holding up a finger and saying, "one moment." He returned a second later, hastily shoving the key into Tom's hands. "Have fun, don't lose it, and should you get caught, you have no idea where that came from." He slammed the door behind him.

Tom put the key in his pocket before making his way back to Granger's office, which he knew should still be empty.

Checking the hall again, he carefully slid the key into the lock, grinning with immense satisfaction as it opened without issue. He stepped in before anyone could walk by and question him.

Fifteen minutes was a generous estimate on how much time he could be here before he needed to leave, lest he get caught. Hogwarts was a big school, and going up to her office, down to the dungeons, and then back to her office took more time than he had initially planned on spending here. Luckily, her cat was locked away this time. The violet was still on her desk, exactly as he had left it(though it had wilted a bit).

While he hadn't studied the language of flowers excessively, he was nearly positive there wasn't a flower that translated to "you asked me not to kill this halfwit; here you go."

The closest he could think of was a petunia, which can be taken to mean anger and resentment, or a person who soothes such fury.

 _Close enough_ , he decided, knowing he didn't have time to ponder it further. But he also wanted her to have to acknowledge that he had done this for her, and only because she had asked him to.

With that in mind, he conjured an iris, knowing that it signifies the use of a message, and put a preservation charm on it. She had kept all the other flowers until they shriveled up and died, but the iris now wouldn't. It would stay on her desk, very much alive, and every time she'd look at it she'd be reminded of what it meant.

He slipped out of her office without so much as a portrait noticing he had been there.


	4. Fifth Year

The Knights of Walpuris as a political organization was, more or less, formed over the course of one evening in 1942 by a group of just over half a dozen boys in the Slytherin Common room.

And it started with a simple question.

"What do you want to do after you graduate, Tom?"

Truthfully, he hadn't given it much thought. Not in depth, anyways. He was still so completely immersed in the beauty and the wonder and the  _power_  of magic, that all he had ever wanted to do was learn and grow and do more. The fact that there were restrictions, however, was bothersome.

Not that he couldn't work around them, but it was annoying nonetheless.

"I want to change things," he said, knowing it was a vague answer and knowing that these sycophantic boys would hang to his every word, "I want to build and stretch the very limits of magic, and I want there to be no barriers to what can be learned and accomplished."

As usual, the boys looked at him with wonder. Avery piped up. "Yeah, he's right. We could have accomplished so much more if it weren't for the Ministry restrictions on magic. They're only trying to accommodate the mudbloods, keeping their unstable magic in check and all, but it's not fair to the rest of us."

That was a topic that came up frequently, and one that Tom made sure to listen intently to. Having been raised away from the wizarding world, he was at a disadvantage. Certain subjects simply weren't taught within class, and while the library could be useful, the best way to learn about wizarding culture was from those who were bred from it.

While many things within the topic were debated, one thing was generally agreed upon(at least within those who spoke freely of it): their magic was unnatural, weak, poorly controlled, and a hindrance on the wizarding world.

Some of the purebloods were kinder about it all. Alphard Black, for example, had said he felt sorry for them. He said their bodies aren't meant to handle magic, and it affects them like a disease.

Orion had argued that his brother had always had a soft spot for animals and that mudbloods were no different from any terminally sick creature; Allowing them to exist, harming both themselves and the wizarding world around them, was both negligent and cruel.

Tom didn't particularly care either way, but he knew an opportunity when he saw one, and his was definitely a point he could rally followers behind.

So he listened and coaxed and praised and questioned, and they tripped over each other to be the first to fall at his feet.

* * *

He found the Chamber of Secrets at the end of his fourth year.

The Gaunt family was one of the only pureblood families left, a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and were direct descendents of Salazar Slytherin himself. Tom spent the last few weeks of the school year studying alchemy(which was difficult, since it wasn't taught as a subject at Hogwarts) and attempting to find everything he could about Slytherin.

He had first heard about the Chamber of Secrets in  _Hogwarts: A History_  in his first year, when he had first read it, but he had completely forgotten about it until he began to research Slytherin himself. The Chamber was rumored to be a myth, but he didn't think it was.

Still, he thought he may have found a way to find out.

Salazar Slytherin was a Parselmouth, and was notably very proud of it. Parseltongue was genetic, only able to be passed down, not learned. If he wanted to be sure that only his heir could find and open the Chamber(and control the monster inside), that would have been the safest way to ensure it.

So he asked the snakes, and they provided exactly what he needed. They told him of a large snake living underground, and they told him that it could be reached "in a place where the pipes connected", leading him to believe a bathroom. When he found a carving of a snake on a sink in the second floor girls lavatory, he knew he had found it.

Hogwarts had been his true home since the moment he had discovered it, but this, stepping into the chamber, solidified it in his mind.

A piece of Hogwarts had literally been left to him, untouched, waiting for him to find it for centuries, and had been left exactly as Salazar himself had intended for Tom to find it.

The Chamber had been designed for a reason, of course, though he couldn't just awaken the basilisk and open it now.

It would take careful planning, and protective measures would need to be put in place in case something went wrong.

Luckily, he had all summer to figure that out.

And he had people who wanted to help. Stepping back into the Slytherin common room late one evening, he told Abraxas to gather the other boys who had been "interested" in making changes within the Ministry after school.

Once they had all gathered back, his plan once again began with a question, though this time he was the one asking it.

"How about we start changing things a bit earlier than we had initially discussed?"

* * *

Over the summer, he used what little money he had(i.e. stole) to buy a diary.

Abraxas had been asked to make a list of confirmed muggleborn students( _confirmed_ being very important: no halfbloods, no proper witches or wizards who had simply been placed among muggles; only those confirmed to be born of filth) that he could use as potential targets.

The summer was spent planning each detail of how the school year would go and how opening the chamber would play with that. Being a Prefect(it came as no surprise that he was the Slytherin boy selected), getting to the chamber to open it would be a lot easier than it had been when he found it. He no longer had as many restrictions on where he could or couldn't go, or when he could be out.

He could pass through the halls like a predator, unnoticed and unquestioned.

The basilisk traveling through the pipes meant that it could go anywhere within the school, but it wasn't omniscient. He would still have to know where each person was, and be able to describe what they looked like, to direct it to them.

It wasn't uncommon for him to fall asleep at his desk that summer, diary open and quill in hand.

Whereas before he had gotten in the habit of reading Granger's book to settle himself to sleep, that summer it remained almost completely untouched.

* * *

He wasted no time after the beginning of the school year, deciding to open the Chamber as soon as he was ready. Each of his most trusted friends had been given a task to help get it going as quickly as possible.

Abraxas continued looking for potential targets. Lestrange strangled the chickens and collected their blood. Dolohov was told to listen within the castle, to make sure that they were aware of any gossip or rumors that could come of it all.

Small, simple tasks, but it was more a test of loyalty and competency than anything. The actual opening of the chamber and the attacks themselves would be entirely up to him.

As a Prefect, stalking his victims was even easier than he imagined it would be.

When he had caught one of the boys from the list Abraxas had given him out past curfew, he knew that this was the perfect opportunity to strike. He told the boy to head back to Ravenclaw tower, knowing it was on the other side of the castle, and proceeded down to the second floor girl's bathroom to summon the basilisk.

The boy never saw it coming, and no one was around to confirm what had happened.

Tom had kept the chicken's blood hidden near the entrance to the chamber, and grabbed it as he retraced the boy's steps back to Ravenclaw tower.

It didn't take long to find the boy petrified, lying in a pool of water next to a broken pipe. Before anyone could come and find him, Tom approached the boy, pulled out the vial of blood, and began to write on the wall behind him.

_T_ _he Chamber of Secrets has been opened_ _, enemies of the heir... beware_

* * *

Dippet announced the following morning at breakfast that a student had been found petrified in what he called "a cruel prank". While he assured everyone that the school was taking appropriate action and that they were taking it seriously, he still heavily stressed that it was nothing to worry about.

There was still nothing he could do to prevent the students from talking, creating the exact reaction Tom had been hoping for: fear of a power stronger than them, of which they had no control over.

In DADA, Professor Granger started explaining the importance of the OWL exams immediately after starting class. The other teachers had had a similar attitude of avoidance towards answering questions. Most likely because no one wanted to risk causing panic.

In third year, Granger had told them all that fear was a gift, and that a sense of danger could be used to keep a person safe and alert. Fear can't hurt you, she had said. But ignoring the things that  _can_ hurt you simply because they scare you absolutely can have deadly, potentially lethal, consequences.

He thought of the other teachers, and Dippet, and how they were so determined to look the other way.

_Fools, the lot of them._

_But not Granger._

Ironically, it was the students who seemed to be smart enough to know something was definitely wrong.

A girl in the front row, Margaret Smith, raised a hand. "Professor," matching her mousy looking appearance was a small, squeaky, voice, "I was wondering if you could tell us about the Chamber of Secrets."

Granger sighed, looking strained and a bit annoyed. She had likely been being asked about this all day, just like every other teacher.

But, since she  _wasn't_ like every other teacher, Tom found himself listening intently to her response. Much to his delight, she didn't dismiss the question.

"What do you want to know?"

About half the class raised a hand. She called on a boy in the front row.

"What is it, Professor? No one ever told us such a thing even exists."

"Salazar Slytherin was prejudiced. There was no logic and nothing more than bigotry behind his beliefs," as she glanced through the classroom, her eyes locked on him and he swore there was  _something_  in the way she was looking at him, "but he believed that certain people should not be allowed to study magic. He tried repeatedly to convince the other founders of the school, but they disagreed with him. So he left. That much is fact.

"But, according to legend, he built a chamber with the purpose of 'purifying' the school. It was designed so that only his heir could open it. However, the school has been searched repeatedly and no entrance was ever found."

He forced his face to remain neutral, despite the way his lips wanted to quirk up into a smirk.

Without even raising a hand, a boy halfway across the room shouted, "So it's not real, then?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and Tom realized with a sense of intrigue that she had backed herself into a corner here: there was no correct answer. Either she would be wrong, or she would be punished by the school for telling the truth.

"That's not what I said. I said it's never been found, at least that we currently know of. I never said if it is, or is not, real."

The mousy looking girl, Smith, raised her hand again.

"So, is it real then? Do you, Professor, think it is real?"

She took a deep breath before saying very clearly, with authority that sounded like it could not belong to her small, seemingly fragile, body, "I believe that, regardless of if it is real or not, a student was petrified. You'll do well to remember that and be careful."

With that answer, he felt like he had just watched a mouse perfectly solve its way through a maze.

It was almost beautiful.

_Definitely a Slytherin._

After class was dismissed, he approached her desk.

"You don't want to be late to your next class, Tom. Is there something I can help you with?"

Her tone was amicable, but he didn't care for that kind of talk right now(and he knew her well enough to know she didn't care for it either), so he decided to go right out and ask.

"You think the Chamber of Secrets is real, don't you?"

 _Say it,_  he repeated over and over in his mind, as though he could simply think it into action.

"I already answered that in class."

"No, you gave a deliberately vague response. You do think it's real, you just can't say so. Right?" He smiled at her, trying to coax the answer out of her.

_Say it,_

_Tell me the truth-_

"Yes," she admitted, though she seemed a bit reluctant, "I think this school holds some very dark secrets and we all have reason to be cautious."

 _Not me_ , he thought.

A moment later, he added,

_Not you._

He felt pride bloom in his chest as he smiled and walked back towards the door.

She was smarter than the rest of them, but of course only he got to see it.

* * *

Having another attack just before the holidays was intentional: he wanted as many people as possible to go home, and he wanted to see how many were so afraid that they wouldn't return after break.

This time, it had been a girl, Hannah Clarence. Hufflepuff, he if remembered correctly.

Dippet had told him not to worry about Prefect rounds, and said that the teachers could handle it over the holidays, but Tom had insisted he continue, never wanting to seem to shy away from duty.

So he did his rounds, taking the opportunity to explore the castle. He walked through every corridor, climbed every staircase, until late into the night of New Year's Eve, he found himself on the astronomy tower.

And he saw  _Her_  there too. Her untamed curls were unmistakable. Shining in the moonlight, they looked a bit darker and her pale skin seemed to nearly glow, making her look almost ethereal.

"Shouldn't you be in bed?" He asked, pretending he thought she was a student.

Because that's what they did -the both of them- they pretended to be a normal professor, grading papers and answering questions like anyone else of her profession. And he pretended to be a kind, dedicated student, a perfect Prefect, a remodel.

They were both liars, fakes, pretending to fit in with this world when their minds were so much more than that.

But he got to see that side of her, that slightly twisted, innovative brilliance, so he rewarded her the same. She deserved it.

"Am I honestly so short that you think I'm a student?" She playfully retorted.

"Of course not, Professor." She turned around, so she was no longer facing the moonlight directly. She still looked unearthly. "Forgive me, I'm the only Prefect who stayed over the holidays so I have rounds every night. I suppose telling people to go back to bed has become a bit of a habit."

She nodded, but then turned back to the railing she had been looking over.

That was unacceptable, he decided, so he joined her. Looking over the railing with her, he lit a cigarette and took a drag. It was a habit he had developed over the summer; He found it kept him awake and alert as well as calmed his anxiety about being back in (what was only metaphorically) hell.

Her face turned to face him. That was better, he thought. He liked it when she looked at him. "Those'll kill you, you know. And shouldn't you be doing rounds?"

Her lips formed just a bit of a mischievous smile, despite the scolding.

"There's hardly anyone else here," he said, "the rounds are more performative than anything. And," he made a point to draw attention to the cigarette as he took a final drag before using his wand to vanish it, "consider that noted."

"I was actually hoping I could ask you something," he added.

She smiled a bit at that. "I'm a Professor, Tom. It's quite literally in my job description to answer questions."

"Not personal ones," he replied. Her smile faltered.

When attempting to coax someone into divulging personal information, there is always a line. A line they won't cross, a line that would end all further attempts to benefit from the interaction.

He wanted to see how far she would let him push.

"You can ask," she said hesitantly, "but no promises I'll answer."

"That's fair," he replied. "You've been teaching here for four years now, but you never go home for the holidays. Why not?"

The silence could be taken multiple ways. She could simply be refusing to speak, indicating that her home life was so unpleasant she retreated to Hogwarts as a sanctuary.

Not unlike himself.

It could also mean that she was choosing her words carefully, being particular about how much to reveal.

Perhaps she enjoyed being a mystery.

"You're not the only one without a real home," she finally responded, though her tone was cold and detached.

"So you don't have a family either, then?"

Having gotten the response he had been waiting for, he pushed further.

She didn't respond.

"What happened to them?"

She still didn't respond.

"Are they dead?"

It was a bold question to ask. Too bold, maybe. But she always answered him, and he found himself somehow dreading that this time she might not.

"Something like that," she said. Her voice held no emotion.

Before he could ask another question, to prompt her to explain, the bells of the clock tower went off, telling them it was officially 1943. Using her wand, Granger sent a single firework shooting into the sky.

"Happy birthday, Tom," she said before turning away.

He wanted to call her back, but he pursed his lips and remained silent.

It was a bit strange that she knew it was his birthday, but that wasn't what struck him;

She had no family either.

She was just as alone as he was.

As he watched her walk away, he thought of birds in cages, of butterflies, _no -not butterflies, she'd be a firefly_ ,  _lighting up just for me-_ in jars, and he wished he could keep her like that.

It would be beneath her, obviously. To be kept as nothing more than a decoration or a pet. It would be a waste.

But she wouldn't be able to leave.

* * *

Usually no one was awake early Saturday mornings, but Tom always was. He rarely slept at Hogwarts, instead utilizing as much of his time learning as possible. He could sleep over the summer, if need be.

Granger, it seemed, didn't sleep much either. Since the attacks had started, he noticed that she seemed even more jumpy than usual, and he saw that dark circles had begun to form under her eyes. In class, she seemed to hide them with dark smudges of makeup that made it all look intentional, but as one of the only people to wake up early enough to see her in the mornings, he knew she was exhausted. She had also been pulling her sleeves down a lot more than normal(especially the left one, though he assumed it was because she was right handed), which confirmed to him that it was, in fact, a nervous tick.

She also began to carry a small hand mirror with her everywhere she went, though she usually kept it out of sight and hidden within a pocket.

It only seemed obvious that she would figure it out before anyone else.

It didn't surprise him to find her awake that morning, standing outside the infirmary, clutching a book so hard her knuckles had turned white. She was staring in at the petrified forms of the two victims, Hannah Clarence and Peter Robbie(both muggleborn), with an odd expression painting her face.

Her brow was slightly furrowed, but her gaze was sharp. There was tension in the way she held her lips, pressing them into a thin line, but he wasn't sure exactly what it meant. It reminded him a bit of the way Orion Black looked whenever muggle advancements were mentioned in conversation: disapproval.

But unlike the look of moderate distaste that he saw on Orion, Granger's expression held determination.

She almost looked like she was in pain.

"Professor," he called towards her, greeting her, and watching with concealed fascination as her face suddenly banished the former expression, morphing into a look of rehearsed amicability.

He found he rather loved seeing her do that. It reminded him of a Veela morphing from a vicious harpy into an indescribably beautiful maiden.

"Tom," she greeted kindly in return. The other teachers(with the exception of Slughorn) usually called him Riddle, but Granger rarely did, he noticed.

He liked it.

He did  _not_ like how he was unable to address her by her first name(which he didn't even know, now that he thought about it) as well, but it was better than nothing.

Her smile was soft, almost girlish, and looked the very epitome of propriety, but her knuckles were tense, clutching the spine of her book so hard it wouldn't surprise him to see it crumble under her grip. The scars he had noticed the first year he met her, the ones he was positive came from her fist repeatedly colliding with something hard(perhaps a wall, or perhaps a very unlucky man's face), stood out visibly against her skin.

He felt a sudden -and surprisingly strong- urge to reach out and trace them, to memorize the feeling of those scars under his fingertips. But he didn't, forcing himself to meet her amber eyes instead.

Her right hand reached over to pull her left sleeve down again.

"You know it's a Saturday, don't you?" Her voice sounded gently teasing and almost melodic, far too innocent for how he knew her to be. It almost bothered him.  _Almost_ , because it was very similar to the mask he himself wore, even though they both knew better. "What are you doing up so early? Shouldn't you be sleeping in?"

"The library is particularly quiet in the early mornings," he replied, knowing she'd relate to his appreciation for knowledge. A hum of acknowledgement and a nod was all the response she gave.

Her smile faltered as she turned back towards the door, peering into the infirmary. She shuffled her feet back away from the entrance, like the petrification was contagious and she would fall victim too if even a single toe crossed over the line into the room.

In realty, she was one of the only people he wouldn't consider sending the basilisk after. She had secured her safety simply by being too interesting, too useful, and too intriguing for him to risk losing, though it's not like he could explain that to her.

Not now, anyways.

She was looking at the bodies, laying against the sterile infirmary beds like statues, covered in a scratchy white sheet. They weren't dead, but at this point "bodies" was a more accurate term than "people". They were petrified, frozen, so unlifelike they may as well be dead. There wasn't anything left there, not really.

It bothered him that he was standing right in front of her and she still was looking at them instead of him. It may have been his work she was looking at, but it wasn't enough.

He was more worthy of her focus, of her attention, than anything or anyone in this school and he felt mildly insulted that she wasn't giving it to him.

So he decided to rectify that.

He stepped closer and her focus shifted back to him. That was better, that was good. "I've been meaning to ask you," he started, "you mentioned in class that certain potions could have overlap with defense, but that it's not necessary to learn them as their use is generally impractical. Are their any situations in which they would be useful, or is it best to disregard them completely?"

Her expression noticeably brightened, as she turned, leaving her back towards the frozen students in the hospital wing and facing entirely towards him. "Well, that's a bit of a trick question, isn't it? No information should ever be just 'disregarded', but that doesn't mean there's not more practical alternatives in most situations."

Lips quirking upwards, he smiled at her as he subtly lead her away from the infirmary.

* * *

Of course he had always known that the basilisk could kill, it was  _literally_  bred to do so, but after the first few attacks he found it unlikely that it would.

He couldn't exactly say it was an accident that Alicia Sivler died, but it wasn't entirely intentional either.

He had come to enjoy being the first to see the bodies, the first to admire his work. He liked the way they looked: frozen, and always with a look of sheer terror in their eyes.

But Sivler didn't look like that. Rather than have statuesque limbs sticking out in front of her, or a permanent look of fear upon her frozen face, she looked limp, cold, and pale.

He didn't need to check her pulse, but he did anyways. She was dead.

He fled the scene.

When Dippet announced the school would be closing, he knew he had to find a way to stop it, to cover it up, to keep himself safe. He  _could not_ go back to Wool's.

The summers were bad enough; He couldn't live there. He couldn't be trapped in a life without magic, without the only thing that mattered to him.

A stroke of genius, perhaps, but he came up with a plan. He prayed it would work.

* * *

He knew something was wrong when it was Dumbledore who summoned him to the headmaster's office, not Slughorn. Not his head of house, but the teacher who had always been suspicious of him, led him up the steps to see Dippet, even though by all means it should have been Slughorn, or even Granger, because they were both Slytherin teachers.

The only reason Dumbledore would be if he had gone out of his way to be involved, which in and of itself was reason to be cautious.

The door opened, and Dippet, who looked completely exhausted, motioned for Tom to sit in the chair in front of his desk. Dumbledore didn't sit. He was almost positive he was about to be interrogated, even if they'd never call it that.

"Good evening, Tom," he said, and though he was obviously trying to sound as polite as possible, the strain in his voice was noticeable. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to be having, and therefore likely wasn't one Tom wanted to have either. "We just wanted to go over the details again. Make sure we know exactly what happened, so we can make sure we are acting appropriately. Please repeats what happened for us."

"Of course, sir." He didn't bother to smile, even if it would be polite. Given the stress of the situation, it would look out of place.

"I admit I knew the acromantula was there for a while, hidden down in the dungeons, but, you see, I didn't know it was dangerous, so I didn't say anything. Professor Kettleburn never talked about them in class, and I was raised by," he paused, turning away as though embarrassed, "muggles, in the orphanage."

That was partially true; He had known it was there for a while, but he made a point not to report things unless the benefits outweighed the consequences. It kept him popular with the students, who in the future may be very useful.

He sighed, feigning remorse as he spoke. "I only found out they could kill when I found something about them in the library. Knowing then, that this creature could potentially be behind the attacks, I knew I had made a mistake and needed to come forward about what I knew. So, I found Hagrid, attempted to kill the spider so it could harm no one else, and then brought him straight here."

Dippet surely looked convinced. His expression was soft and apologetic, like he felt guilty for making a poor orphan boy relive all this.

"Now, Tom, you definitely should have come forward sooner, but no one faults you for this. Looking after your peers is, after all, a highly admirable trait and one of the reasons you were chosen as prefect. Hopefully now you have learned your lesson, and we are surely grateful you were brave enough to step in."

Tom allowed color to fade into his cheeks as he bashfully hung his head. "Of course, Professor."

Dumbledore, however, did not seem equally impressed. Or impressed at all. Never one to seem outwardly angry, or even so much as raise his voice, he simply gave Tom a soft, disbelieving smile. They both knew Dumbledore couldn't just outright admit he thought that Tom was lying, but he clearly was not prepared to just drop the issue either.

"Now, did you actually see the acromantula anywhere near the body?"

To an onlooker, the question was innocent, meant simply to clarify. Tom knew better. He was sure it was a challenge, and in response put on the most innocent expression he could.

"No, sir, I already told you everything. I just think it's suspicious. It's been said that there is a monster living within the castle, and there hasn't been an attack since we found it."

Dippet, turning to Dumbledore, nodded emphatically, though it didn't seem to phase the other man.

"It's only been a few days -that's hardly proof enough to make a decision."

The door creaked, and all three of the men present turned to look as it opened, revealing a very uncomfortable looking Professor Granger. She stepped forward, in between Tom and Dumbledore. Tom was secretly glad that she had placed herself as a buffer between himself and the old man, because he couldn't have moved away himself without seeming suspicious.

He didn't enjoy the way Dumbledore kept glancing at him, watching him.

"Professor Granger, how kind of you to join us." Dippet spoke up first.

"Yes, Headmaster, I didn't mean to eavesdrop but," she took a deep breath, seemingly to steady herself, before continuing. "There may not be any direct evidence to prove the acromantula was behind the attacks, but if it was, it'd be quite ridiculous to close the school now that it's gone. Perhaps we should wait and see before coming to a decision?"

Tom glanced over her shoulder to see Dumbledore was looking at her with a look of what he could only interpret as disappointment.

By the looks of it, he had hoped the woman would have agreed with him. Not only had she not, but she had gone so far as to use the word 'ridiculous' to describe what he was proposing. No wonder the old coot was upset.

"We'll talk to the Ministry about it further, Professor. Thank you for your input. Tom, it's quite late and-"

"I'll walk him back to the Slytherin common room," she cut in, "if there is a monster still on the loose, it's not best to let students wander alone."

Tom opened his mouth to say that wasn't necessary, but Dippet was already agreeing and he didn't see the need to fuss over it. He held the door open, allowing Granger through first(she was a lady, after all) and they walked back to the dungeons in silence.

She wasn't saying anything, nor did he expect her to, but he continued to steal glances at her anyways. She was acting... odd. While she didn't look panicked(he did remember, vividly, what she looked like when she was scared), she didn't look comfortable either. Her spine was almost perfectly straight, as though she had been reminding herself not to slouch, and her muscles had gone rigid. He didn't see her wand, but he knew she kept it holstered in her sleeve, where she could get to it immediately if necessary.

Maybe she actually thought there was a monster on the loose, and was feeling defensive. Not that a wand could do much to protect someone from a basilisk, and he wouldn't send it after her anyways, but she might not know that. She had been carrying around a mirror, but maybe the finding of the acromantula(which  _had_ gotten away) made her doubt her original hypothesis.

But then why would she want to keep the school open, if she herself didn't think it safe? Why would she condemn Dumbledore's concerns when she had her own?

Before he could contemplate it further, he felt a forceful pull from the back of his neck, dragging him back into an empty classroom. It happened so fast he couldn't so much as think to question it as he found himself thrown into a wall. Her wand left her sleeve and he heard the door lock. Just as he turned to ask what she was doing, her wand pushed into the skin of his throat.

"Your pet needs to stay in its cage," she hissed, looking absolutely deranged.

Her hair was frizzing out in all directions, and her eyes had an almost feral gleam to them. In another situation, he'd have thought she looked glorious like that. The fact that her rage was directed at him made it noticeably less pleasant.

Upon realizing what she had just said, he felt his pulse quicken. She knew. She had thrown him into a wall and was holding her wand to his throat, because she knew what he had done, and he knew this was a situation he needed to handle  _very_ carefully.

He tried to placate her, to feign ignorance, as he still slowly began to reach for his wand. "Professor, I-"

"No! Shut the bloody fuck up, Tom!" The pressure of the wand pushing against the skin of his of his throat increased, and he could feel the blood in his body pulse against it, quick and erratic.

For a moment, he felt stunned -almost like she had literally hit him with a stunning spell. He had never heard a woman say the word 'fuck' before. It was another piece of the situation he would have enjoyed had he not been being threatened.

She was still talking.

"That acromantula story is bullshit and we both know it. They know it too, but they don't want to admit it so they're trying to pretend. Dumbledore is already suspicious. If your scaly friend comes out to play again, even if no one is killed, it won't matter anymore. There is nothing I'll be able to do to protect you then."

She stepped back slowly, lowering her wand, but she kept her eyes locked on him through each step. And then-

"Please."

Her eyes widened just a bit, and then she hastily looked away. It was strange, because for a moment, and only a moment, he swore he saw something flicker in her eyes. Something that looked like fear, except that wasn't it. It was more like  _guilt_ , even though he knew that didn't make sense.

And then she looked away it was gone.

He had never been slow to understanding the motives of others. It had always been quite easy for him to fit together all the pieces -body language, tone, word choice, context- until he had a clear picture of what was going through the mind of another, even if it was simplistic and often stupid.

This was different. None of the pieces she had given him matched up to anything.

She had threatened him, then given him advice which, despite the menacing way in which it was delivered, sounded genuine, and then she had said she was trying to  _protect_ him(a bizarre notion in and of itself, truly, and certainly something to be examined later.)

And then she said "please".

Why?

What was she asking for? What did she want?

When her eyes flickered back to him, he felt like he couldn't look away. He didn't understand why her eyes looked like that, like she was begging, pleading to him for something. Not knowing what else to do, he nodded.

With a flick of her wand, she unlocked the door and turned to leave. Before she could walk away, before he could question his own actions, he reached out for her, gripping her wrist.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I don't know," she replied, and he noted that she looked a bit  _lost_ , like this was as baffling to her as it was to him.

That wasn't good enough. She needed to answer him. She  _always_ answered him. "Is it because you agree?"

Perhaps that was the reasoning behind this, that she did not believe he should be punished for continuing Slytherin's noble work.

But then her gaze darkened, and her anger returned.

"Absolutely not, and I don't think you're stupid enough to genuinely believe that either," she snapped.

His grip on her wrist tightened. It wasn't intentional, but she deserved the warning.

"Salazar Slytherin was one of the most brilliant wizards who ever lived, and you dare call him stupid?"

"I'll call anyone who believes in that nonsense stupid. You're smarter than that, Tom. Use your head. You really think inbreeding is somehow going to lead to an ideal wizarding world?"

He glared at her, but said nothing, mostly because he wasn't sure what to say. He was angry, furious even, but he was also feeling  _confused_ , because he had no idea what she was doing, no idea how to figure her out, how to manage the situation.

In an attempt to control his temper, he left out a shaking breath and released her wrist. If he kept holding onto it, he might actually break it.

She examined her wrist for marks, signs of the harm done, but he knew there were none. He had let her go specifically so that he  _wouldn't_ hurt her.

He forced his voice to remain calm when he spoke again. "Then why?"

"Because you could be so much better than that, if you decided to be."

That wasn't a real answer, but she left anyways.

He wanted to grab her, to pull her -drag her, if need be- back, to ask her over and over and over again until she answered because, for him, she always answered, but he didn't.

He watched her go and grit his teeth and clenched his fists, but he let her go.

* * *

Back in his dorm, Tom spent the next several hours unsuccessfully attempting to will himself into unconsciousness.

It never worked.

It never worked, because the same question kept repeating in his head.

_What did she want?_

Why would she do this? What should she possibly gain from this?

If it was about her job, she would have thrown him under the bus instead of siding with him when she knew Hagrid wasn't guilty.

Not that she needed the job anyways, in fact her talent was likely being wasted doing nothing but grading plagiarized papers, but-

No. It wasn't about her job. Of that he was certain.

It very briefly occurred to him that she might just be being  _nice_ , to get him out of trouble, but the thought made him literally scoff out loud(and earned him a confused glance from a very tired Abraxas Malfoy; He shut the curtains around his bed after that, thankful for the built in silencing charms).

_No, Granger is a lot of things, but she is not nice._

A nice person would certainly  _not_ be helping him cover up a murder.

Call a spade a spade, that's what she was doing: covering up the murder of Alicia Sivler for his sake. And that was  _not_ a nice thing to do.

So what was left then? He thought back to her words, to everything she had told him, and it dawned on him.

_"Because you could be so much better than that, if you decided to be."_

She wanted him to continue to grow, to learn, to be _better_ , and she was willing to sacrifice the welfare of someone truly unworthy to ensure he had the chance.

She had chosen him.

Just as he saw her as special, she acknowledged him as such too. She  _knew_ he was better than the rest of them, because she was too.

Within him, she must have seen a kindred spirit, and he saw it too.

Every great wizard in history had a mentor to teach them, to guide them; Merlin was taught under Slytherin himself.

Tom knew he was destined to be the greatest of them all, and Granger was given to him to teach him like no one else could.

That's why she had looked so lost, so confused at her own actions. She was a gift from fate, and she didn't even know it. This was out of her control.

It was her fate, her destiny, even, to be given to him. To teach him, to help him in ways no one else would ever be able to.

In return, he'd do the same for her, he decided. It would take time, but she'd come to him.

He thought back to those cages and jars, the ones he wanted to keep her in, and he smiled knowing that they wouldn't be necessary.

* * *

A few days after they announced the school  _would_ be staying open, he saw Granger walk into to Dumbledore's office and shut the door.

A part of him panicked, thinking that perhaps she was regretting this, perhaps he had been mistaken and she was turning him in-

But, no,  _she wouldn't do that._  His fears quickly subsided. She wouldn't do that. She  _couldn't_ do that, since her binding to him may as well have been written in the stars. She still had free will, free thought, but she wouldn't betray him.

Still, he attempted to eavesdrop, though what he heard was all very muffled.

"Not to be negative," he recognized that voice as Dumbledore, "but I find myself quite worried about that, seeing as acromantulas do not petrify their victims. It doesn't make much sense, does it?"

"Not typically, no," Granger, definitely, "but the one that was found was simply a baby. We have so little information on the species as is, and we have no idea about how they are when they're young. For all we know, the nature of the venom could change with age."

She was protecting him. Again, she was protecting him. She was straight up lying to one of the most powerful wizards in history, and it was for  _his_ sake that she was doing so.

His heart started racing, and he wasn't sure why because it definitely wasn't fear, but-

Suddenly he heard footsteps approaching the door and he immediately began to walk away.

Granger exited Dumbledore's office, and she didn't so much as spare him a glance as she raced down the hall back to her own.

Not thinking twice, he started to follow her. Not walking too quickly, not wanting to seen suspicious, but he did retrace her steps back to her office and knocked on the door.

She didn't open it, but he hadn't been expecting her to. It would make sense for her to be upset if Dumbledore had decided to interrogate her. After testing the doorknob and seeing it was locked, he pulled out the charmed key again and made quick work of unlocking it.

Granger was sitting on her couch, knees pulled into her chest with her arms wrapped protectively around them. Her eyes looked red and slightly puffy, and if he wasn't mistaken, her cheeks were wet.

She had been crying.

Once, back at the orphanage, he had seen Mrs Cole comfort a sobbing boy by telling him that crying when you're hurt or upset is as natural as coughing when you have something in your throat.

At the time, he had scoffed at the notion. Looking at Granger now though, it made a little more sense. Despite the tears, she didn't appear weak.

It still made him a bit uncomfortable, but he was determined not to let it show.

He crossed the room and sat across from her on the couch.

"How did you get in?" She asked.

He pulled the key from his pocket, noting the way she looked at it with intrigue. "Orion and Alphard Black use this to sneak into Slughorn's liquor cabinet. I take it when I need it," he said matter-of-factly. "You've been crying. What did Dumbledore do?"

"Nothing," she said quickly. Too quickly -she was nervous. "He didn't do anything. I'm just stressed and it upset me. I'm fine."

In her mind, he could kill her at any moment and she had to operate with caution to ensure her safety. He had decided already that he had no intentions of killing her, but of course she didn't know that yet.

He'd have to teach her, show her, that he meant her no harm.

He began to pull his wand from his pocket, and she reflexively reached for her own, eyes wide with fear.

But, to prove his point to her, he didn't curse her(which would have been counterproductive to his new objective). Instead, he put out his other hand, waved his wand over it, and a daisy appeared. He gently closed his fingers around it before offering it to her. She looked at the flower like it was a hissing snake, her wand still firmly in her hand. He smirked.

A daisy could mean a lot of things; Among those things was "innocence" and he a feeling she'd appreciate the irony. Other than that, it could symbolize new beginnings, and an affirmation of secrets kept safe.

It was fitting.

"Relax," he told her, and she slowly took the flower from his hand, holding it in her own. "You're a bit paranoid, don't you think?"

"I have reason to be," she muttered under her breath, sparking a sense of both curiosity and concern within him. He'd have to explore that later.

"Does this," she gestured to the daisy, "mean you're not going to leave them on my desk anymore, now that I know it's you?"

"You've known I've been leaving them for the entire year," he stated, not bothering to hide his grin.

"And you know that how?" She retorted, and it was probably meant to sound bossy or shrewish, but her indignation was comical.

He plucked the daisy from her hand, made his way over to her desk, dropped it in the vase, and then wandered over to her bookshelves. "You've had this," he said as he grabbed a specific book off her shelves, "in your office all year. You didn't before."

It was a guide to floriography. A book literally used to translate the language of flowers, to decipher the messages he'd sent her. He noticed it the first time he went into her office that year.

Dropping it on her lap, he returned to his place next to her with a self satisfied look on his face.

"That doesn't mean I knew it was you," she replied defensively, looking quite annoyed with him.

Usually, he didn't like the word 'cute'. It was stupid and juvenile, but there really wasn't another word to describe the way she was trying not to pout at him.

"You did. I knew you'd understand it, and the reason you're sounding so put out about it is because you're not used to other people matching your intelligence."

Neither was he, for that matter. They were very much alike in that sense as well.

"You knew I'd understand it? And how exactly did you know that?"

"I'd have figured it out, so I knew that you would have," he said.

"So that's it? You just assumed that because you'd have gotten it, I would too?" Her voice was getting shrill, bossy, and he couldn't pretend it wasn't delightful to be the cause of it.

He loved that this was just another side of her that only he got to see, that only  _he_ was worthy of knowing, so he continued provoking her.

"Is that not how you've been teaching me for the last four years now?"

She huffed, but no further response left her lips.

 _I win_ , he thought with a smirk.

"You still haven't told me what the point of all of this was," she muttered, bitterness still heavy in her tone.

He shrugged. "The first one was just to say 'thank you'."

"And you couldn't have just said it yourself?" She asked, the exasperation obvious in her tone.

"And would you have thought I meant it?" He retorted.

No, obviously not. She knew from the very beginning that he was special, and she definitely wouldn't have believed any niceties he gave her, nor would he have meant them at the time.

"After that, I was more or less just curious to see when you'd catch on. You're cleverer than most. I barely had to leave you anything," he finished.

"So that's all this was about? You just wanted to see if I'd figure it out?" She folded her arms over her chest.

"I wouldn't have bothered if I didn't find you  _interesting_ , if that's what you're asking."

_Interesting,_

_Intriguing,_

_Crafted just for me_

**_Special_ **

She cleared her throat, likely wanting to change the subject.

"What was the charm you put on the iris?"

Unable to help himself, he burst into laughter. The irate expression she gave him only made it all the more amusing.

Once he had calmed down, he told her, "I really thought you'd have figured that part out first, you know. Isn't it obvious?"

She looked over at the vase on her desk. The daisy he had just put there looked very much alive. The violet and petunia were certainly past looking dismal, but she hadn't bothered to throw them away. And the iris was looking exactly as it had the first day she got it.

"That's really it? It doesn't wilt, but nothing else?" Her shock and disbelief were palpable.

He didn't respond, but didn't need to. The smug look on his face was enough of a response.

"How did you even come up with the idea?" She asked, and though she still seemed upset with him, he detected a bit of curiosity. "Until I went looking, I'd never even heard of it. It's not very common knowledge."

He frowned; It wasn't something he wanted to talk about. But, for her, he decided, he would. She had earned honesty.

"At the orphanage, Mrs. Cole makes us go to church on Sundays. I refused, obviously, because muggle religion is pathetic. I think she thought I was possessed, because she was incredibly insistent that I go. Eventually, she told me I could go through the church's library if I agreed to go and take communion.

"The library was mostly just full of random, donated books that people wanted to get rid of. Not very interesting, but it was better than doing nothing. They had a book about it there."

"Oh." She suddenly looked like she felt guilty for asking.

"Dumbledore doesn't have any evidence," she, changing the subject. "You're fine. He just has a grudge against you."

 _I'm aware,_ he thought dryly.

"How long have you known?" He carefully monitored his tone as he asked, not wanting to frighten her.

"A while."

"That's hardly an answer."

"It's the only one you're going to get," she replied, clearly suspicious of him.

"Will you tell me how you figured it out then?"

For a moment, she looked away, debating what(or how much) to say. Then she took a deep breath and said calmly, "The sorting hat would almost surely put Slytherin's heir in Slytherin's own house, given the founder's weird fixation on heritage. That already narrows it down to a fourth of the school. The pureblood families would without a doubt brag about something like that, but they didn't. So that narrows it down further. Looking into your family history, you can see that you're the son of Merope Gaunt, direct descendent of Salazar Slytherin.

"That being said, it's not actually proof of guilt. Dumbledore knows all this, but he has nothing solid enough to do anything about it. Don't give him any further reason to look into it."

"I won't," he responded immediately, because when she had asked him,  _begged him,_ to before, all he could give her was a nod. She deserved verbal affirmation. "I'm not overly worried about that anymore. As you said, he has nothing that isn't circumstantial, and Dippet just wants this to blow over. We're going to be fine."

"We?" She questioned.

"Yes. We."

Unsure of how much he could say without frightening her, he settled for that.

For now, anyways.


	5. Sixth Year (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sixth year is going to be divided into two sections because it got way too long for me to not break it up. In the original of this, I feel like there was a lack of development between characters and I wanted to expand upon that here. Hope you like it!

After the events immediately following the closing of the Chamber of Secrets, Tom started to do his studying in Granger's office instead of the library. It was unusual, but not unheard of, for students to spend time in individual teacher's offices rather than more public spaces. Slughorn in particular often invited his favorite students to use his office if the other areas of the castle got to be too distracting.

Tom had never taken him up on that offer, though if he hadn't decided to study in Granger's office he likely would have at some point.

She asked him why, once. Why he was there, that is. He had told her he liked it better than the library.

That was true, but mostly he just liked that he could ask her questions whenever he wanted.

Sometimes, they were mostly academic.

_"Why is how to defeat a boggart taught in Defense Against the Dark Arts instead of Transfiguration if the charm used falls under the category of the latter?"_

_"Because a boggart is a dark creature, and learning to overcome fear is a skill more useful in defense."_

Sometimes they were less academic, and could be quite dark.

_"If the Cruciatus Curse can't force someone to tell the truth, and Veritaserum only works if the right questions are asked, is there any way guaranteed to get information out of someone?"_

_"Short answer: no."_

_"And the long answer?"_

_"The Cruciatus Curse isn't even the most effective way to torture someone, but, even then, some people do not break under torture. So, if you really need information, it's best to convince them to divulge it willingly._ "

_"...The Cruciatus Curse isn't the most effective way to torture someone? Isn't torture the entire point of the curse? It's literally called 'the torture curse.'"_

_"Not that I am encouraging this -I'm not, for the record, please quote me on that- but no, it's not the most effective. It's horrifying and agonizing, but that doesn't make it effective. People like to think that torture is all about pain and suffering, rather than breaking a person. Pain and suffering can drive someone mad, but if their will is still intact, you get no results. You'll get nothing out of it. It's more effective, not to mention less repulsive, to just convince them to tell you themselves."_

Sometimes they were random, almost personal questions that he asked only because he felt like asking something and couldn't think of anything academic.

_"Coffee or tea?"_

_"Coffee if you're demotivated, hot chocolate if you're sad, tea if it is being offered and you're trying very hard not to be offensive."_

The question he was asking her now fell mostly into the latter category.

"What's wrong?"

She had been grading papers much more aggressively than usual, and had punctured more than a few with her quill. If she didn't start being careful, she might actually stab herself. She was squirming around in her seat, and though her hands were busy, she still managed to find ways to do that thing where she shifted her sleeves down.

To him, that was further confirmation that it was a nervous tick. An odd one, but regardless.

"What's wrong?" He repeated, waiting for a response.

"I don't want to talk about it," was all he got. While better than the passive aggressive 'I'm fine' he could have gotten, it still was hardly satisfactory.

"Why not?"

"I don't want to think about it."

If her demeanor was anything to go by, her plan of not thinking about it was almost certainly not working.

"Is that healthy? Avoiding your problems?"

Looking up from a paper she had just mutilated with her red inked quill, she shot him a glare. "No, it's not particularly healthy. But neither is drinking, or smoking, or  _killing people_ , so if I were being graded on a curve I'd say I'm doing alright. And what about you? Is the way you handle your problems  _healthy_?"

With her frustration, her hair began to frizz out much more than usual, practically sparking with barely controlled magic. He smirked. "I'm alright, Granger. Thanks for asking."

With a flick of her wrist, the book that he had been holding suddenly ripped itself from his hands, slammed shut, and then collided with the top of his head.

"What was that for?" Just as the book was about to hit him again, he snatched it out of the air.

"Annoying me," she hissed, and then turned back to her work.

Leaning back against the arm of her couch, he kept a firm grip on the book and did not let go even as it started to pull away from him. It was aggravating, but he wouldn't deny that her ability to wandless and nonverbally charm a book to repeatedly hit him was rather impressive.

He was curious as to if it was a simple modified levitation charm, or if it was more complex magic designed with the intention of inconveniencing him. This was probably not a good time to ask, though.

"I thought you said killing people is unhealthy," he started, "and yet here you are, trying to beat me to death with this poor book. I daresay it doesn't deserve that kind of treatment. Wouldn't you agree?" He looked back at her with a barely concealed smirk, only to see she was pointedly ignoring him. "If you just told me what's upsetting you, I could fix it for you. Then we wouldn't have this problem."

She scoffed. "Of all the things I'd like to do in life, I'm certain that having an impromptu therapy session with a sixteen year old psychopath is not on the list."

His smirk fell and the first thing he wanted to tell her was that he was  _not_ a psychopath, but he didn't. It also annoyed him more than a bit that she felt the need to mention his age, as though he weren't already more magically accomplished than most of the school,  _teachers included_ , despite being only sixteen.

 _Seventeen in a few months,_ he reminded himself,  _by wizarding standards, that's an adult._

Rather than defend his own character, he decided to insult her back. A bit risky, considering she was still a professor, but she annoyed him. She deserved it. He had nothing to hide now, anyways.

"Trust me," he sneered, "I harbor no delusions that therapy could ever help you."

He placed a permanent sticking charm on her book as he put it back on her shelf( _good luck ever reading that again, Granger_ ) and left her office without sparing her another glance.

Whatever was bothering her, she could get over it on her own. It's not as though she actually needed him to solve her problems, nor was it his responsibility. If anything, it was her responsibility to help him, not the other way around.

Generally he appreciated that she was a teacher, because it allowed him to see and speak with her almost whenever he wanted, but recently he felt differently about it. Obviously, it was still a very convenient situation for him, but he found it bothered him for a number of reasons.

One of which was that he had to second guess all his interactions with her(though, he noted that he had been doing that since fourth year anyways, albeit for different reasons), simply because she was unpredictable. After coming to the conclusion that she was there to assist him, to guide him, it made sense to assume that she would do things for his benefit. That being said, he found himself unable to predict her behavior or understand her motives beyond the most obvious and there was no denying that it was frustrating.

More than that, however, it upset him to see her doing something so obviously beneath her as answering questions from  _other_ students, and grading plagiarized essays.

It wasn't jealousy, he was sure, because he had nothing to be jealous of. It was more like righteous anger, if he had to compare it to something.

It was unfair, because Granger was here to help him. She was here to guide  _him_ , not anyone else, not any of these other students. And yet, because it was her job, because it was the only way he could keep her close, she had to answer to anyone who so much as called her name. Because she was a teacher and that's what teachers do.

A bitter part of him hoped that the questions asked of her and the papers she graded would only get worse, until they were so bad she could barely stand it, just to remind her of how much better than them he was, just so she would come to appreciate her position next to him.

* * *

Slughorn had one last dinner party before the year concluded. He said it was to celebrate the school staying open, and made a big show of thanks towards Tom for catching the monster responsible.

Obviously, Tom didn't correct him that 1) it wasn't actually responsible(not that Slughorn needed to know that) or that 2) it wasn't caught, it ran away.

So while Slughorn drank himself silly and made small talk, Tom feigned interest in ministry politics. Eventually he began prattling off about former students, most likely unaware that he was slurring his words, and Tom had mostly stopped listening.

"Very dedicated girl, she is -would have loved to teach her, but it is quite alright. I've been inviting her to my Christmas parties for the last -three? I think it's three now- years, and she's always busy. I told her, I said, 'Hermione you really must let Albus take over for just one night, it's not good for a young lady to be cooped up all the time.' She did promise to be at the next one, though, and I'll hold her to it!"

Slughorn let out a deep belly laugh, as though he had just told a hilarious joke that no one but himself understood. Parkinson, who this entire meal had been doing that annoying thing girls often do where they push food around on their plates without actually eating it(was she unaware that there was rationing over food?) seemed to feel the need to ask for clarification.

"Hermione, sir?"

"Oh, excuse me, I forget that so few of you know your professors' first names," Slughorn moved to reach for his wine again. "Professor Granger. Her first name is Hermione."

Though most of the evening had been painfully dull,  _that_  caught Tom's attention.

_Hermione. Her name is Hermione._

Obviously, he was aware that she had a first name. Everyone did. He just had never taken the time to learn it, though now he decided that perhaps he should. She had already been researching him, hadn't she?

That night he went through his diary, found every entry mentioning Granger, and crossed out her name. Over it, he wrote her first name.

_Hermione_

If she was going to call him by his first name, he decided he wanted to call her by hers too.

Tom spent the rest of his free time that term searching the library for anything he could find matching her name. Granger wasn't a pureblood name, but she was probably a halfblood, or she may have changed her name at some point if she left a pureblood family.

He found nothing he could link to her.

* * *

Over the summer, Tom used any public records he could find to trace back to his mother's family. Eventually, he found what he needed from the Ministry and set out one day to find them.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting to get from tracking them, what little of them was left, down, but it hadn't gone favorably at all. The entire thing left him feeling an unsettling mixture of angry, anxious, and oddly unclean.

After the events of the day, he found himself more than anything just wanting to go home. Home, he knew, was Hogwarts. As much as he hated sharing a room, he'd still have preferred it to where he was now. Needing to escape Little Hangleton, and having nowhere else to go, he went back to Wool's, in London.

He went straight up to his room, not bothering to tell anyone he was back. They wouldn't care anyways.

They never did, and that didn't matter to him.

Today had been the first day he had killed someone.

Technically, he had killed that mudblood last year, but it wasn't the same. He had told the basilisk where she'd be, but he hadn't been the one to directly take her life. It wasn't personal.

His father and grandparents had died as personal of a death as he felt he should give them.

When he had left that morning, his plan had been to track down his family. His mother's family, specifically. He hadn't expected to have his father even mentioned, having assumed he'd have been dead too. Why else would his son have lived in an orphanage?

But he learned quickly. First, he learned that his father was a muggle. A filthy muggle with no appreciation or respect for magic. Then, he learned his father was alive and had simply abandoned his only child -the child that had literally been named for him- because his wife was a witch.

_"You look just like that muggle."_

That's what Morfin had said as soon as he saw him, after he immediately began swinging a knife around. As he looked in the mirror after he showered, he hated to admit that Morfin had been right.

Or, nearly right.

Looking into his reflection, he searched for any differences in himself and the muggle. Anything at all that could differentiate between them. He had the same sharp cheekbones, same sharp jawline, and same pale complexion as the man he had killed only hours previously. They both had jet black hair that had just a bit of texture to it. He hated it, and just thinking about the looks he shared with his father made him want to claw his skin off until he was unrecognizable, even if it cost him the advantage of being attractive.

But their eyes were different.

Whereas Tom Riddle the muggle's eyes had been a light hazel, his son's were a harsh grey, with nearly black limbal rings. Nothing like his father's, for which he was suddenly exceedingly grateful.

Tom remembered his father's eyes in perfect detail. They were mostly a muddy green color, with flecks of amber brown scattered near the center. He remembered the way they looked with tears in them, bloodshot, and how his pupils dilated under the prolonged effects of the torture curse.

Granger had said the torture curse was only for causing pain and suffering, that it didn't wield results. That it couldn't  _break_ a person properly. Looking into his father's eyes and  _wishing_  he could break him further, into even smaller pieces, until he was nothing at all, he thought he understood what she had meant.

And in the precise moment the last bit of life left those eyes, he wished he could have prolonged the moment.

He remembered how those eyes looked lifeless, glassy, and staring into space. It hadn't been enough.

Merope had been weak. Slytherin would have been completely disgusted to know of what had become of his legacy.

Granger - _Hermione_ , he corrected- had said Slytherin was stupid.

Well, actually, what she said was that anyone who believed in blood supremacy was stupid, but that included Slytherin so his initial thought wasn't technically wrong.

Looking at Morfin, he couldn't help but think she had been right. The man, if you could even call him that, had blood as pure as it could be. And yet he was hideous, slow, and magically  _weak_. For all his talk of superiority, he was barely above a squib. Magic was passed down through generations, and Slytherin seemed to think that only procreating with other magical people would purify the line, but Morfin stood to show how horribly wrong that could go.

Unrelated to blood purity, Morfin had nailed snakes to the door of that old rotting shack. And Tom had said nothing about it, because it wasn't important, but he wouldn't deny that it bothered him a bit. The Gaunt family were the last descendents of Slytherin. If they had been proud of that heritage, you'd have thought they'd treat the animal so closely associated with him with a bit more respect. Slytherin, serpent tongue himself, would have been disgusted.

Admittedly, Tom began to value the man's opinions less than he previously had.

Tom, who by Slytherin's definition was lesser, because his blood had been tainted, was considered a prodigy within the wizarding world. Slytherin would have been ashamed and disgusted to know of his birth, and yet he had been the one to reopen the Chamber as had been intended, the one who was well onto discovering magic as had never been done before.

He couldn't help but feel angry.

So angry that he barely felt anything at all, comparable to how a noise can be so loud it makes your ears ring and drowns out all other sound.

His eyes flickered to the ring he wore on his finger, the one he stole from Morfin earlier that same day, and he took a controlled breath.

Over and over again, he calmed himself by thinking of how he'd bring them all to their knees, how the very people who had looked down upon him before would grovel in the dirt in front of him.

He'd play whatever role he had to for now, but eventually, he'd never let anyone hold power over him again. He'd never let anyone tell him he was unworthy, never let anyone tell him "No".

He'd do whatever he had to if it meant he would never feel so fucking powerless ever again.

* * *

Upon arriving back to school, Tom couldn't deny that he had been somewhat eagerly anticipating seeing Hermione again. There was something strangely exhilarating about having a person you didn't have to hide from or act for, and as much as he hated to admit it he had grown rather accustomed to it.

Usually, he preferred to be alone. Other people were a distraction, and to constantly have to work to alter himself to best fit a situation took effort he didn't want to have to waste all the time. It wasn't particularly difficult, but it was tedious. With her, that was never a problem.

The first night back, he had prefect duties, but he still made time to see her. After the feast, but before rounds started.

When he walked into her office that evening, he found her curled up on her couch with a book, her cat sleeping on the back of the sofa next to her. She looked up, saw him, and marked her page.

"Can I help you?"

He shook his head. "I just wanted to ask how your summer was."

Her suspicion when she answered him wasn't hidden at all. Eyes narrowing and arms crossing over her chest, she gave him a look that was decidedly cold. It wasn't unusual for her to be cold, so he found he didn't mind it. "Fine."

Though he absolutely hated when she only gave him one word answers.

Turning to face her bookcase, he began browsing through the shelves, looking for any new titles she'd have gotten over the summer. Just as he reached for a book he hadn't seen before, this one about ancient runes translations, he heard her speak up again.

"What classed did you decide to take this year? I know exams were postponed, but you should still be able to take whatever NEWTs courses you like."

He smirked. Though she didn't outright say it, he knew she was trying to ask if he was still going to take her class.

"Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Charms, Divination, History of Magic, Potions, Transfiguration," book in hand, he turned around so he was facing her again. "And Defense Against the Dark Arts, of course."

His eyes wandered to her mouth, where he could tell she was biting the inside of her cheek. If her goal was not to portray any visible reaction, she should have known that little movement was a reaction of its own.

"That's less than last year," she remarked.

He tensed his jaw. It  _was_ less than last year, but it was still more than anyone else in either sixth or seventh year was taking. It was still more than a full standard course load.

"NEWTs courses are harder," he replied, even though he didn't have to justify anything to her. "And I wanted to have a few free periods to study on my own. So yes, I dropped a few of the less interesting courses. Astronomy, Herbology, and-"

"Care of Magical Creatures," she finished for him.

"Since I'd rather not learn the internal anatomy of a hippogriff or how to give a house elf a prostate exam, that class at NEWT level is unnecessary."

She blinked a few times and started blushing slightly as she turned her gaze. Perhaps the imagery was a bit much for her. "I didn't take that class either," she murmured.

Though part of him wanted to playfully remind her that was personal information she just willingly divulged, he decided instead to savor the opportunity. Maybe she'd say more.

He arched a brow. "Not a fan of magical creatures, I take it?"

She shook her head. "No, it's not that. I just didn't find the class productive. I have always loved magical creatures though. Just, preferably not up close."

A moment later, her watched as the corners of her mouth twitched up into a smile. "But, I'll admit, in my fourth year, I tried to start an organization for house elf rights. Called it S.P.E.W. or the Society for the Promotion of-"

"You called it  _spew_?" He held a hand over his mouth, pursed his lips and tried to contain his laughter. An organization for the rights of slaves was ridiculous enough, but to actually call it  _spew_? She couldn't actually expect someone to hear that and be able to keep a straight face.

Her scowling didn't help. "It was not  _spew,_ it was S.P.E.W. and -stop it! It's not funny!"

A deep scowl on her face, she folded her arms over her chest again and leaned back. "Okay, so naming it wasn't my best work, fine. But the idea still stands."

"Mhmm. I'm sure."

"Yeah, okay, fuck you too."

Just like she had earlier, he bit the inside of his cheek as he moved towards the door, taking the book he was borrowing with him. "Well that's an awful rude way to thank someone for agreeing with you," he jokingly chided her.

"I'm not thanking you and you're not agreeing with me."

"Are you sure about that?" He asked, tilting his head.

"Quite."

The exasperated huff she gave only fed his amusement. "My mistake," he replied, delighted by the way it seemed to further irk her.

He shut the door behind himself, happy to finally be back at Hogwarts.

 _Home_.

* * *

Dueling club started up again during the second week of school.

As usual, Tom was there. Ever since it had been instated, he was always there. Generally he didn't like extra curricular activities; He wasn't a part of any other teams or clubs(other than the Slug Club, but that was hardly an official group).

What was highly unusual was that not only was Hermione not there, but when the clock tower went off and the doors shut, it was  _Dumbledore_  who was standing at the front of the Great Hall.

Just as Dumbledore began introducing the club, Tom spoke up.

"Where is Professor Granger?"

The old man smiled back at his interruption, and Tom was sure he was doing it just to be as infuriating as possible. "Professor Granger has taught dueling the last few years, and we decided it's time she deserves a break -this is a fairly large club, after all. I'll be taking over for her this year."

With that, Tom stood up and headed towards the door. It might look suspicious -probably did, he knew. It's not like he couldn't hear the confused whispers of his peers- but he felt like he was fuming and he didn't want to spend another second around the old fool.

'We decided' -that's what Dumbledore had said, and Tom was absolutely certain it was bullshit. Hermione wouldn't give up teaching dueling willingly. Not altogether, not for him. If it had really been that hard for her, she'd have agreed to let another teacher take over for the younger kids, not everyone.

Not him.

Though he hadn't consciously made the decision to head to her office, he knew that's where he was going. He didn't bother with a polite greeting as he opened the door.

"Why is Dumbledore teaching dueling?" His voice was laced with frustration.

"He wanted to," she replied calmly, looking up from the book she had placed on her desk.

"Do you always give him everything he wants?" He sneered back.

He was aware that, to a certain extent, he was being childish and holding her accountable for things she couldn't control. It wasn't her fault, he knew, and she confirmed it for him.

"I don't think he trusts me as a teacher anymore," she said, ignoring his rhetorical question, "if I'd have been too insistent to keep doing it, it would have looked suspicious."

Begrudgingly, he agreed. Not outloud, of course. He still didn't like it.

"I know, but dueling club was-"

"The only place you could throw curses at people without being held accountable?" She cut him off. "I know. If you need another outlet for your aggression, most people use Quidditch. It's not productive, but if you want to beat someone to death while people clap, I believe that's what it's for." She turned back to her book.

He cast he an irritated glance, but she didn't look up to see it.

* * *

After his abrupt departure from dueling club, Tom expected Dumbledore would try to 'reach out' about it. Since the Chamber had opened, he knew the man had been watching him. It seemed like even the portraits kept an eye on where he was going, much to his dismay.

If what Hermione had said earlier was true, then he was probably watching her as well.

Mentally, he took note of which halls had what portraits in them, and thought of all the ways he could avoid the most obviously monitored paths.

He knew he should expect it, and that he would have to be careful.

He still wasn't happy when he was asked to stay after class. The fact that he had  _her_ class after Transfiguration just made it even more bothersome.

"Can I help you, sir?" He asked, cautiously approaching the desk. He kept his hands empty and visible, as to not appear suspicious, but he took notice of where his wand was in his robe.

"I just wanted to see if you were alright, Tom. You didn't seem to be feeling well when you left the dueling club meeting. Always wise of a teacher to check on their students. Lemon drop?" With his hand, he motioned an offer to the candy dish on his desk.

Tom declined.

"Thank you, sir. But I'm quite alright."

"Good to hear. Is it safe to assume you'll be at the next meeting then? I've been told you're an excellent duelist."

"Actually, sir," he started, doing his best to appear sincere and apologetic, "I only came to the first meeting to tell Professor Granger that I wouldn't be attending this year. NEWTs courses are quite difficult, and I wanted to tell her personally."

"Very polite, Tom." The other man smiled. "Though quite unnecessary. You could simply have told her in class."

He blinked, but didn't allow the man to throw him off balance. "It was a last minute decision, sir."

"I'm sure it was."

The other man looked him over with scrutiny, and though every instinct he had told him to defy this attempt at exercising authority, he remained calm and stood stiff. He wasn't entirely sure what the old coot meant by that, but he didn't want to ask.

Suddenly he felt rather uncomfortable that Hermione had been mentioned at all, even though he had been the one to bring her name into this silent battle of wills. The idea of Dumbledore knowing anything about her was unappealing. Though he couldn't articulate why, he felt like she should be shielded from all this.

"Is that all, sir? I have other classes I need to attend."

Dumbledore nodded. "Off you go, then. We wouldn't want you to miss out."

It took an exceeding amount of self control not to slam the door behind him.

* * *

He knew that Hermione's suggestion he join the Quidditch team was sarcastic, but he took it upon himself to attend tryouts anyways.

In the past, he hadn't had much interest in it. Though he had played more than a few informal games with the other Slytherin boys, it was more a way to network than an actual hobby.

And he enjoyed flying, but that wasn't a contributing factor.

His feelings towards it hadn't changed much, but he now did have extra time without dueling club. There was no reason for him not to join the team, and there were several potential advantages to being on it.

One of which would be seeing Hermione's reaction to him actually taking her sarcastic advice.

There was a certain look she sometimes had when he did something that confused or surprised her. Her eyes would sharpen and her head would tilt a bit. Sometimes her breathing pattern would change.

And then she'd look up at him, like his face would somehow explain whatever it was she didn't understand.

He never offered an explanation. He didn't need to. He didn't  _want_ to, if it meant she'd keep looking at him with that bewildered expression.

Taking notice of what triggered this reaction, he came to a rather amusing conclusion: she was surprised to see him act outside of the image she had built of him.

Initially, he thought she was surprised to see he could be capable of gentleness. What triggered that response first, at least that caught his notice, was that she saw him pet her cat. She seemed utterly baffled as she watched him stroke along its spine, and then, when he noticed her watching, scratch behind its ears.

After that, he noticed it again when he helped a lost first year get to class, and then yet again when she dropped her books and he picked them up for her without being prompted by witnesses.

Whenever he was 'nice' beyond what was expected of him, it seemed.

But then she held the same expression when she saw him crumple up a returned paper from Dumbledore(who, as usual, refused to give him full marks) and toss it into the rubbish bin all the way across the room. Then, he understood.

She was always quick to tell him she thought him "evil", and she never sugar coated saying he had "an appalling lack of empathy". At one point, she told him without so much as looking up from her paper, "I have no doubt that if left to your own devices, you will destroy everything you touch."

Despite all her complaining, she still seemed to enjoy his company more than that of anyone else. She didn't keep the company of anyone else, he noted with satisfaction.

His only response at the time had been a smirk and a mischievous, "not  _everything_."

Looking back, it all made sense. In her mind, she had this idea of him as a monster. A wolf in sheep's clothing. Seeing him act dutiful and polite didn't surprise her because it was all part of the disguise. And she wasn't entirely wrong, but she had oversimplified him.

Seeing him act outside of the role she had cast him in confused her.

It confused her, but it delighted him to be the cause, and he was going to thoroughly enjoy shattering that illusion for her. Reminding her again and again and again that she didn't know him as well as she thought she did.

The look on her face when she watched the first Slytherin Quidditch match of the season made joining the team worth it.

The networking and flying were obviously nice too, of course.


	6. Sixth Year (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you love a crazy, dark, jealous and possessive Tom, you might be interested in the other Tomione I recently started. It's called This House Has a History, and you can find it on my page. Also, I lied. sixth year is going to be three chapters, not two. Sorry bout that, I just couldn't bring myself to shorten it.

After hitting yet another dead end in his search to learn more about Hermione, Tom decided he needed to break into her office again.

This time, he had requested public records from the Ministry, much like he had done with his mother's family. What he should have gotten was an incomplete history of her life, including almost everything she had ever done within the magical community. OWL and NEWT scores, schooling, family relations, criminal record, work experience- all of that was tracked by the Ministry and could be requested as public information.

And yet it seemed they had next to nothing on Hermione Jean Granger.

They had a file, of course. There was just very little information in it.

According to the little information he got about her, she had born in 1920, on September 19th, making her 23. No parents listed.

But somehow, she managed to get eleven OWLs and eight NEWTs despite having been homeschooled.

Not bloody likely.

It was more likely, much more so, that the records had been fairly recently changed or newly created to apply only to the name she was going by now. It wasn't uncommon for a witch or wizard to register themselves to the Ministry under a new name.

Herpo the Foul, for instance, was certainly not born being called 'the Foul'.

If that were the case, "Hermione" might not even be her birth name. If she changed her surname, she easily could have changed her first name as well.

His primary theory was that she had left a pureblood family. The Blacks, for example, were known to burn blood-traitors off the family tree and disown them entirely. It would make sense that she would disown them back, reject her name, and reinvent herself(that's certainly what  _he_ would have done).

He couldn't imagine her groveling for forgiveness. She wouldn't, he just knew that. And he knew she'd never censor her opinions on blood purity politics, because she hadn't done so even for him, even when he could have hurt her.

Not that he had any intention of doing so, but she didn't know that. She was either unafraid of being hurt, or so passionately reckless that she didn't care. In a way, that fearlessness and bravery was admirable, attractive, even, but it still made him feel a bit uneasy.

She couldn't help him if she was too busy being suicidal.

Alternatively, she was a bastard child. In many of the pureblood families, the halfblood children of mistresses(Malfoy always said they "don't keep the mudblood secretaries around because they need help with paperwork", as though that's not completely disgusting) were hidden away, denied the family name, and had their general existence pushed under the rug completely.

That wasn't  _exactly_ what had happened to him, but similar. Close enough.

It would unfortunately be beyond impolite to ask her about that. And he knew quite well that she wouldn't tell him shit, given her mysterious and incredibly suspicious "no personal information" policy.

Ergo, he broke into her office again.

First, he started with her desk. He flipped through all the papers that sat on top of it, but seeing they were mostly essays(bad ones, at that), he moved to the drawers. In the top drawer of the left side, he found extra paper, quills, and ink. He moved on.

In the next drawer, he found files containing records of grades. After a brief glance through those(which gave him confirmation that he did, in fact, have the best DADA grade out of everyone in his year), he moved on.

In the bottom drawer of the right side, he found a picture frame containing a photograph underneath all the miscellaneous, teacher related rubbish.

Though she was younger, he recognized Hermione immediately. She was wearing an oversized, fuzzy sweater over a large pair of what looked like men's sleep pants. Sandwiched between two boys who looked to be about her age, she kept glancing between the camera and the boy next to her, the one with red hair. She looked like she might have been fifteen -sixteen, maybe.

There was nothing in the photo he recognized other than her. He didn't recognize the room, nor the boys with her.

He still felt an odd sense of annoyance upon looking at them. She looked comfortable with them.  _Happy_ , even. She almost never looked happy at Hogwarts, not genuinely. He could only think of a few rare times he he made her laugh or smile like that. He wondered what those boys had had to offer her, to be able to make her feel like that.

Whatever it was, he wanted to have it.

"What are you looking for?"

Hearing her voice, he gently placed the photo back but did not look up. He continued onto the other drawer.

"I spent the entire summer," he started, still not looking up, "and a decent portion of last year looking for anything I could find about you. But I found nothing. Not even someone with the same last name."

Well, technically hadn't spent the  _entire_ summer, but a decent portion of it. After discovering his family was useless, he decided to further investigate hers using the muggle resources available to him.

After a brief moment, she replied, "have you considered that might be intentional, Tom?"

 _Yes_ , he thought,  _y_ _es I have._

He looked up, curious to see if her face would reveal anything. In stark contrast to the photo he had just seen, she looked tired. And not in the way that could be fixed with a nap.

 _'Coffee if you're demotivated_ ,' she had told him once. Maybe later, maybe while he was studying, he'd ask the house elves if they could bring up coffee. See if that made her look less exhausted.

"And why on earth would you do that? What could be so important that you so desperately hide from it?" He strode over to her, pleased to notice she kept her eyes locked on him the entire time.

Given her exhausted appearance, it didn't surprise him that her tone was lacking of its usual passion. "I never said I was hiding. There's power in anonymity."

 _That_ sparked his interest.

"What do you mean?"

No stranger to a desire for power, Slytherin was the house of ambition. The wealthy, the famous, and the politically powerful all often came from his house. But they always sought recognition in some form or another. Hermione was also a Slytherin. Although despite seeking power, she seemed to desire no such acknowledgement. It was unusual.

Then again, she scarcely could be described as 'usual'.

As she moved to sit down, he joined her by moving to sit across from her. "Have you ever seen a puppet show?"

Not entirely sure of where she was going with this, he nodded.

"You never see the puppet master, only the puppets. Typically, you don't remember their name ten seconds after reading it. But that doesn't matter, because they're still in control. Every movement, every line- it happens because they want it to.

"There's no glory, but there's power and the ability to do whatever you want in peace, without anyone ever even considering you."

He didn't know where she came from, or if Hermione Granger was even her real name, but with that comment, he felt like he knew  _her_ , past aside, better than he had before.

It made sense. She seem to hate being around other people, feared it, even. Why would she seek their recognition, their approval? To her, power was not about having people know her name, but freedom, having the ability to do as she pleased without so much as needing their notice. She wanted to live her life in peace and control, not fame.

There was something deeply gratifying about knowing she didn't have such a shallow view of the usual Slytherin ideals. While completely different from his own, he related to her on that.

It did, however, remind him of another question. He had asked it before and she had barely answered him. In his frustration, he decided to ask again.

"What happened to your family?"

There was caution in her expression, like she wasn't sure what to say, but then she finally answered.

"I obliviated them."

He remembered that night he first asked, when he found her up on the astronomy tower on New Year's Eve, his birthday, and how he had found a sense of solidarity with her when she told him she didn't have a family, that she didn't have a home. That, just like him, she was alone.

The feeling grew exponentially upon hearing her last answer. Just like he had killed his family, she had killed hers. Maybe not literally, but she did. She erased them.

Rather than continue the conversation, she grabbed a book and sat down. He joined her, but said nothing.

As she read, he watched her, not even the slightest bit subtle about it, but she didn't seem to notice.

He watched the way she kept brushing her unruly curls out of her face, how she pulled her sleeves down, and how she looked completely immersed in the book, as though she could slip away and escape into the pages themselves. He wondered, if she could do such a thing, if she would.

She looked beautiful.

He had always thought she was pretty, and he had acknowledged her attractive appearance before, obviously, but this was different.

It wasn't her face or her hair or her body that he found beautiful in this moment, but her entire existence. The way her life, her mind, her very  _soul_ paralleled his was so alluring, he couldn't help but feel a desire to claim it for himself.

It it was obvious why fate had given her to him.

Something so rare and so valuable, so extraordinary, couldn't be trusted with anyone else. And he was the only one  _worthy_  of her time, and she the only one worthy of his. Even she knew that, proven by her refusal to have other friends.

But, for now at least, he knew he'd have to be patient with her, for her. Because he knew that if he wasn't, he'd lose her. Maybe not completely, but he didn't want to risk having any less than all of her.

That simply wasn't an option.

* * *

Jealousy was a feeling Tom was very familiar with. He knew what it felt like by now, having felt it many times before. Identifying it was easy.

He was familiar with the way it made your gut wrench, and it seemed to boil the blood in your veins. The way it weakened the control over a person's thoughts, making them fixate only on that which they can't have, that which another person does have despite being undeserving of it.

None of that was comparable to how he felt watching a man, Tiberius McClaggen, if he had managed to introduce himself properly(given his apparent lack of brain power, Tom wouldn't have been surprised if the fool got his own name wrong), putting his hands on Granger-

 _No_ , he corrected himself,  _Hermione_.

All these months later and he still hadn't completely broken the habit. He was allowed to think of her as Hermione, he didn't have to call her by her surname-

Leaning into her, whispering to her,

 _Touching her_ ,

And knowing that he himself could not do the same.

Because, even though he had earned her attention, her affection, even(though she seemed to still be in denial about that, it was clear), he was still only a schoolboy to the world. And by those standards, he wasn't allowed to touch her.

Even though she had chosen him, he had less of a right to even place a hand on her than the gremlin currently salivating all over her.

It made him furious.

And by the looks of it, Hermione didn't like it much either. She squirmed under the scrutiny of the other man, and downed her champagne like she was hoping she'd drown in it.

She looked positively miserable.

_As she should be._

She should be disgusted by the idea of another man touching her, of another man looking at her like that, because she didn't belong to anyone else.

Never had he consciously acknowledged that she belonged to him, but now that he just had, it seemed obvious. Some things don't need to be said for them to be known as true.

For example: there is water in the Black Lake. It gets cold in the winter. Hermione Granger belonged to him.

All of these statements are known to be facts, existing as such despite any denial or lack of acknowledgement.

When he had first heard Slughorn mention that she would be coming to this party, he had been looking forward to it. Slug Club parties were generally dull, and they existed only as a way to schmooze or brag, but Tom always attended because he was always invited.

And, eventually, the schmoozing might pay off.

Usually he found that having her near calmed him, kept him stable and focused with unusual ease, but tonight was proving to be an exception.

She showed up, just like Slughorn had said she would, in a floor length sapphire gown that seemed to almost glitter as she moved. Though it covered her shoulders down to her sleeves(it didn't shock him to see that she, as always, was wearing long sleeves), the neckline was cut into a dramatic deep v shape that showed off more cleavage than he had ever imagined she'd show willingly.

It also highlighted a deep purple, painful looking scar that started at her shoulder and cut across her breasts; A battle scar, he assumed. A mark left from a serious duel, a curse flung by someone with more than a little experience in dark magic.

She looked stunning. She looked dark and powerful, like one of the goddesses he'd read about in ancient mythology, and breathtakingly beautiful.

And he hated it.

He hated it because normally only he got to see her like that. Normally, her value was kept hidden away just for him, but now everyone was looking at her like they wanted her.

He hated it and he hated how he had no authority to correct the situation, to set the record straight.

Having to sit and watch it all just made him sick. And want to leave. He wanted to get up, to rip her out of her seat,  _away from McClaggen_ , and leave and take her with him.

But he didn't have that option, and he couldn't tear his eyes off her.

The other man put a hand on her again, her shoulder(cloth covered, no skin, he noted), as he leaned in to her.

"Where else does that scar extend to, sweetheart? I've always loved such dangerous, pretty girls."

Unable to contain his rage any longer, furious accidental magic lashed out. The man's champagne glass burst in his hand.

It was a pity none of the shards hit him.

The sound attracted quite a crowd, and, desperate for attention as he was, McClaggen ate it up. "Sorry about that," he said with a disgustingly arrogant expression in place. "Quidditch, you know. You get in the habit of gripping things just a bit too tight." Slughorn, who was obviously more than a little drunk, waved it off, cast a spell to clean the broken glass, and it all moved on.

Taking advantage of that small moment of distraction, Hermione pushed her seat away from him.

_That's my witch, keep scooting away-_

But the distraction only lasted so long, and after only a moment the man had shifted his attention back to her.

"Would you like to go somewhere a bit more, private, shall we say? I'd just love to get to know you better."

And with that, Tom thought he might actually lose it. He had prided himself on his excellent self control, but with that comment, he thought he might actually kill the man. Disregard magic completely, he'd slit his throat with his own broken champagne glass, and obliviate everyone present.

Except Hermione. She would watch. If he had to, he would make her.

Not to hurt her, but to help her, to teach her. So she would understand what would happen to people other than himself who touched her, who spoke to her like that.

She needed to know she was valued, and that she would be adequately protected. How much he could do as a student was heavily restricted, but he would make it work if he needed to. And she would help him.

He knew she would.

She jumped from her seat, almost falling over as she nervously sputtered excuses at the man attempting to bed her. "Sorry, uh, I'm taken. So sorry. I'm not feeling well so, please excuse me."

Her heels made a surprisingly delightful clicking sound as she scampered away like her life depended on it.

Abandoning the party, Tom followed behind, deciding to find her himself. She was stumbling, she was drunk, and she was looking  _like that_ , all of which were separately valid reasons he didn't feel comfortable letting her wander around without him.

He found her in an abandoned classroom, bent over on all fours, retching into a trash can. Not exactly elegant.

When her retching had ceased and she was merely catching her breath over the rubbish bin, he moved forward, crouched down next to her, and pulled her hair back, away from her face.

"Slughorn's parties have a tendency to do this to a person, even if they hadn't had as much to drink as you did," he said conversationally, and she turned her head to face him.

Seeing his face, her head tilted just slightly in what he understood to be confusion, or perhaps curiosity. Her hair moved a bit within his fist, but he kept his grip firm for the moment. She must have used a charm to keep her makeup in place, because her lipstick would otherwise not have survived that much champagne or that much vomiting.

"I don't make a habit of drinking like that, but I really needed a distraction."

He held back a smirk. If she really wanted to, she could have just come sit with him. This was her own fault, and to hear that it had been unpleasant was uniquely satisfying.

He let his grip on her hair drop, watching as it once again frizzed proudly,  _properly,_  around her face.

"Come on, let's get you back to your office." He offered a hand to help her up, expecting her to take it, but she just looked at it with confused apprehension, like it was a wild animal that had suddenly approached her. "Hermione, you can barely walk. Let me help you," he drawled, but she didn't so much as move.

Rolling his eyes, he bent down and wrapped an arm around her waist, guided her arm around his shoulder, and helped her up. If she wouldn't help herself, then he would have to do it for her.

As soon as she tried to step away, she fell off balance again and he gripped her waist tighter. The entire way back to her office, she muttered grouchy things about "I'm not as drunk as you think I am."

A knight in one of the portraits nodded his approval of Tom's seemingly chivalrous actions, and though he appreciated the gesture, he did not appreciate the way it made Hermione start muttering something about "benevolent misogyny." He had no idea what that meant but he wasn't really listening anyways.

He had never actually been this close to another person before, never touched anyone more than was necessary to be either threatening or polite. It was strange, but not entirely unpleasant.

In general, he liked to keep the possessions that mattered most to him very close. His wand was always on his person. His diary was either in his hand, his bedside table, or his bookbag. The book Hermione had given him stayed with the diary, except on nights where he couldn't sleep.

It would make sense that having her near would bring him similar comfort. It was logical.

And, he noted, that for as much as she was complaining about how she didn't need help, she hadn't showed any signs of either revulsion or fear towards the way he touched her.

Which moderately surprised him, because she really was quite close. Though she had removed her own arm from his shoulder, his was still wrapped around her waist, fingers splayed over her ribcage. Through the fabric of her dress and the flesh of her body, he noticed he could detect the distinct feeling of bone. She felt fragile, like a twig he could crack if he pressed just a bit too hard.

He didn't like that she felt breakable.

Logically, he knew she had to be stronger than she felt underneath his touch. In general, females were smaller and physically weaker, but he knew she wasn't helpless. She was the bloody defense teacher, for fucks sake, not some wilting flower.

The feeling was still disconcerting, though.

As he half carried her along, her hair brushed against his face, ticking the skin under his nose.

It smelled like soap, orchid, and vanilla. Probably her shampoo. Generally, women smelled like flowers or artificial sweetness, or baby powder. He liked the scent of her shampoo better, he decided.

When they arrived back at her office, he placed her gently down onto her couch before moving to sit across from her.

"Why did you call me Hermione?" Despite her inebriated state, her words were surprisingly coherent.

"Because that's your name," he answered blankly, like it should be simple.

"But I'm your professor," she argued.

His initial reaction was ' _no, no you're not'_  but technically that was incorrect, so he didn't say it out loud.

"Not really," he said instead.

She blinked. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like."

She eyed him warily, but didn't attempt to argue further. Satisfied with her passive response, he moved closer. "That guy, at the party," he started, "you told him you were 'taken', whatever that means."

Part of him knew that he shouldn't ask, that it was improper, even if he didn't outright say what he was asking. Really, he hadn't actually asked anything, only made a statement. Still, she wasn't wearing a wedding ring, so he could say he was simply confused by the contradiction of her response and the appearance of a lack of relationship. That he only was asking for clarification.

Even if it was improper, he had a feeling she didn't care much for what was proper. Proper women don't swear, they don't drink themselves sick in public, and they definitely don't abandon their duties to a family in order to study dark magic.

She was an anomaly.

"There's this thing people do, when they don't want to do something. It's called lying," and with that, she actually started giggling.

Giggling, like an inane school girl.

Normally he despised the sound, and out of context he'd definitely still find it annoying, but knowing that she was only acting like this because she was completely sloshed and knowing that he was the only one allowed to see her like this somehow made it amusing.

"Oh, I can assure you, I'm very familiar with the concept. But isn't that usually considered rude?" He asked, tone heavy with mock innocence.

"Oh, Merlin, you're right!" She replied sarcastically. "Next time I'll be sure to just tell him to fuck right off."

 _You should have_ , he thought.

He chuckled a bit before leaning forward and tucking a lock of her hair back. "I don't think Slughorn would appreciate that much, but I certainly wouldn't complain."

Since he began Hogwarts, he started actually caring about his appearance. He knew that no one would listen to a little orphan boy with uncombed hair and dirt on his face, but that if he was clean, quiet, and polite, their attitudes towards him would change drastically. As he got older and no longer looked like a boy, the difference was even more noticeable.

It was most noticeable with women, though men were susceptible as well.

A compliment, a polite but intimate touch, and they would melt. They'd fall apart and he could rebuild them however he pleased.

Hermione, it seemed, could not be so easily swayed. She blinked quickly, swallowed, and ever so slightly leaned away from him. Anxiety, he deduced.

In a way, it was interesting that she only seemed afraid now, when all he had done was verbally imply interest in her, and not earlier when he had actually touched her, held her close, even.

Her throat cleared subtly before she spoke again. "Well, regardless, I have no interest in dating."

At that, he scoffed. "Hermione, I don't think a date is what he was interested in."

Instantly, all the color drained from her face and she stared at him like he had just started speaking in tongues. What began as a grin morphed into full, genuine laughter as her expression shifted from that of shock into one of disgusted horror.

"If you keep talking like that, I'm gonna throw up again," she grumbled, clearly not as amused by this as he was.

Again he leaned forward, this time brushing her hair back behind her shoulder. As his fingers brushed over the edge of the scar, she flinched. He wasn't sure if it was out of pain or surprise, but he didn't move his fingers away.

He ignored the way his trousers suddenly felt tighter as he trailed his fingers down, lower, along her scar.

The scar was cursed, he could tell. He could literally feel the dark magic thrumming against the healed skin, residing unnaturally within her body. It didn't match the traces of her own magic, it felt wrong.

"This isn't a natural scar," he stated. "What happened?"

"Someone cursed me," she responded. It was probably the alcohol willing her forward, but he didn't stop her as she continued, "I saw that he was firing at me, and I knew it couldn't be blocked. So I silenced him instead, weakening the spell. If I hadn't, I'd have died. Even with it weakened, I wasn't in good shape."

Remembering the way it felt to touch her ribs, how she felt so fragile and delicate, he imagined someone cursing her. It wasn't intentional, he couldn't control it, but he imagined her bones snapping like the twigs he had mentally compared her to before. He imagined punctured lungs and pained, gasping breaths, blood leaking from the corner of her mouth. The wound over her chest no longer a scar, but open and angry.

It made him furious to think of someone doing that to her. And, in a strange way, he felt nervous. He didn't want to think of her dying and leaving him without any guidance whatsoever. He didn't want to consider what could have happened if she had died before he even got to meet her.

"I heard Slughorn bragging to some of his Ministry friends that you had 'hands on experience' with defense against dark magic," his eyes flickered from her, to the scar under his fingertips, and then back to her before saying, "I take it this is what he meant?"

"I don't talk about what happened. Not in detail," she replied plainly.

That was the line. Again, personal questions was the line she wouldn't cross. It was strange how he could push her and push her for information on the darkest types of magic and she wouldn't so much as blink, but anything about herself made her defensive. What little he knew of her life he had learned because she chose to reveal it on her own, not because he pushed.

Reluctantly, he removed his fingers from her skin, holding eye contact as he did.

For her, he decided not to press more. For one night, he had given her enough to process. If she was that frightened of closeness -of  _intimacy_  in any form- he knew that pushing her would only be counterproductive. He would need to be gentle with her or she'd run off. She'd get scared, overwhelmed, and he wouldn't allow for that to happen.

Before he left, he left two additional flowers on her desk. He contemplated the symbolism in that the language of flowers was initially used to say things one couldn't outloud, because it would be improper or have serious consequences, and how painfully true that rang now.

Never had he had trouble asking for what he wanted. It had always been easy for him to express what he needed or what he desired at any given moment. But this was an unusual situation, and she was an unusual person. When he had implied his interest in her before, she became frightened. It wasn't obvious -no shaking, screaming, or crying(thank fuck,  _that_ would have been a nightmare to deal with, not to mention deeply insulting)- but he could see it and he knew better than to try that again, not right away.

Perhaps it would be easier for her to read it.

A yellow rose could be used to signify friendship, but she wouldn't read it that way. Nor should she.

Jealousy, infidelity. She'd understand what he meant. That it was maddening to know that he couldn't otherwise express his desire to keep her to himself.

A heartsease pansy could be taken multiple ways as well, but in this case either one would be suitable.  _Think of me_ , because  _I'm thinking of you_.

* * *

Tom snuck back into the Slytherin common room late, not expecting anyone else to still be awake. When he had left Hermione's office, it was already past midnight.

"You left the Slug Club party over an hour ago."

He looked up and saw that Dolohov was sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace, newspaper discarded next to him.

He glared back at the boy. "Are you my mother now, here to lecture me for breaking curfew?"

The other boy seemed completely unfazed by his hostility. "No," he shook his head, "just curious. I just saw you leave right after Granger left and I assumed you came back, but you weren't in the dorm."

"I was helping Granger back to her office."

"Did she break her legs or something?"

Tom's eyes narrowed. "She was drunk. It's not exactly safe for intoxicated women to wander around on their own."

"And you care... Why?"

In comparison to the other boys, Dolohov was actually fairly decent company. He was fairly intelligent, usually quiet and though he most often kept to himself, occasionally he asked Tom questions about whatever it was he was reading or doing. Normally, Tom didn't mind.

This time, however, he was not asking about any bits of rare magic or the inner workings of a curse. He was asking about Hermione. And that was one of the things Tom did not feel overly inclined to share.

He glanced around the common room. It was empty, but he had no guarantee it would stay that way.

"Walk with me," he said, quickly guiding the other boy out into the hall.

It was silent between them until Tom opened the door to an abandoned classroom and they both stepped inside.

Dolohov pushed himself up onto a desk and gave Tom an expectant expression. "What's this about?"

From here, he saw that he had three options: divert attention from the issue, lie, or tell the truth.

While Tom wasn't even remotely opposed to violence, he also knew it wasn't always the best route and had a number of potential consequences. If he hurt someone every time they annoyed him, he wouldn't have half the useful acquaintances he did now, and they'd have no loyalty to him. It would be unwise to burn bridges before you're done with them.

A confundus charm could work, though. But if he used that, he'd be missing out on the opportunity to build the illusion of trust. He knew people would do just about anything for someone who made them feel like they were useful,  _special_ , even if they weren't.

Rather than lie entirely, Tom thought it would be best to give half the truth.

"Granger knows about the Chamber of Secrets."

That was enough information that the boy wouldn't think he was hiding anything, but vague enough that the precise nature of his interest in her was concealed.

For a fraction of a second, the other boy went stiff and his eyes widened in shock. "And you were..." He paused, likely thinking of a way to ask without self incriminating, "doing something about it?"

Tom shook his head.

"No, there's no need for that. She's helping me."

"She's helping you?"

Tom nodded in affirmation, but did not verbally reply.

"So... does that mean she's one of us, then?" Dolohov hesitantly questioned.

'Us', he knew, meant the Knights of Walpurgis.

After a moment, hopefully not enough time that Dolohov noticed, Tom replied. "Yes."

 _No, and if she were here to hear me say that, she'd probably slap me_.

Still, it's not as though he could just tell him, or anyone, the truth: that Granger,  _Hermione_ , was his. Not yet.

"Does anyone else know?"

"No," he answered quickly, shaking his head, "and as of right now, I don't trust them to know."

The boy nodded his agreement. "Abraxas is still a little iffy on the whole half-blood thing, and he'd likely feel threatened if you brought another girl in." He punctuated his last statement with a smirk.

Hermione would hate being referred to as a girl like that, even if it were only to insult Abraxas, and the thought of exactly how she'd lecture him about it was nearly enough to make him smirk, but he restrained himself to keep up his air of authority.

"Glad to know we're in agreement," Tom replied, tone cordial as ever, "and if you tell anyone, you should know I'm not opposed to using the Chamber to stash corpses."

He turned away, but he still saw the other boy's stiff nod of understanding.

* * *

Early the following morning, Tom stopped by the infirmary for a hangover concoction. By flattering Madam Pomfrey, he was able to convince her to give him one "for a friend who over-indulged at Slughorn's party". It wasn't a lie, but she probably thought he had meant one of his roommates.

That was her mistake. Not his fault.

Gently, he opened the door to Hermione's office, and, as expected, found her with her head down on the desk, all the lights in the room dimmed around her.

"Good morning, Hermione," he said as he approached her desk. "I brought you something. I had a feeling you'd be a bit, shall we say, out of sorts, after last night so I stopped by the infirmary for you."

He placed the bottle on her desk. "Here, it'll make you feel better."

Lifting her head, she warily inspected the bottle. He rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Hermione, it's not poison. Just drink the damn potion."

"No, it's not that," she said dismissively, voice a bit groggy. "It's more that I don't want to forget that excessive alcohol consumption has consequences."

He arched a brow. "You're punishing yourself? Seriously? You got drunk at a boring party, not drowned a baby."

"It's more the principal than anything," she grumbled in response.

Sighing, he took the bottle from her hands. "Very well then. Have it your way."

And with that, he banged his fist against the desk, creating a noise he knew would be skull shattering to her.

"What the  _fuck_ Tom?!" She shrieked, covering her ears to protect herself from the pain.

He did it again.

"Tell me when you feel sufficiently punished and I'll give you the potion back. There's no use having you incapacitated all day, that's just stupid."

Just as he raised a hand to hit the desk again, she raised her own in surrender. "Fine, fine. I get your point. You're right. Happy?"

He nodded his affirmation.

"Give me the bloody potion," she grumbled.

"As the lady requests," he replied as he handed it back.

After she downed it, shot him a glare. "I hate you."

Laughing, he responded, "no, no you don't, and we both know it."

Biting the inside of her cheek and rolling her eyes, she replied, "you are such a brat."

He saw no reason to deny that, especially when she somehow managed to it sound like a term of endearment.

* * *

Almost everyone had gone home over Christmas break, leaving only about a dozen stray students and exactly two teachers behind.

During meals, the Great Hall usually held a table for each house and one for teachers, but over the break it held only one long table in the center of the room.

Dumbledore said it was better to eat with company. Tom found that debatable, but when he saw Hermione take a seat at the end of the table, he decided he didn't care and sat next to her. The thought of leaving her exposed to Dumbledore of all people, was, to put it mildly, unappealing.

Usually over winter break, he had the kitchen house elves bring him food while he studied. It was technically against the rules to do so, but over break the elves stopped caring and they liked him anyways.

Throughout the meal, he watched her again. He recently found that he very much liked watching her, even if at times it became distracting or frustrating.

When she was asked a question, she'd smile politely and subtly divert the attention elsewhere, find a way to shift the focus away from her.

He liked that. He liked that she didn't answer anyone but him unless it was academic, unless she had to for her job.

When someone told a joke, she'd quietly, almost girlishly, laugh along until the appropriate moment to stop.

 _That's fake_ , he thought to himself with smug satisfaction,  _I've seen what she looks like, sounds like, when she actually laughs, and it's not that._

He spent the rest of the meal watching her, analyzing her, and reveling in the fact that everyone around them was completely unaware that she was a liar, and a fake, except for him.

And he was too, except for her.


	7. Sixth Year (Part 3)

After the Slug Club party, Tom had been thinking a lot about all the things McClaggen had said to Hermione, about his stupid Ministry job(which was hardly significant; he was a puppet, really. Nothing to brag about), about Quidditch(which Tom also played, and it wasn't like it was hard), and he thought about how the man had been trying to impress her by showing her everything he could offer her.

Knowing her, she wouldn't be interested in anything he had to give her. She wouldn't want it. She wouldn't care for all the gold in the world if it was being handed to her by someone with no skill and half a brain. For that reason alone she wouldn't want  _him-_

but it still left Tom with a sense of frustration, and a feeling that he needed to remind her why she had been given to him, even if she didn't understand that. A glimpse of more to come, something she could remember and hold onto.

So early, very early, Christmas morning, when most of the school was gone and the remaining strays asleep, he went back to her office, found the bookcase he knew concealed her private room, and knocked.

Well, perhaps "knock" was putting it lightly. He was practically pounding on it, trying to wake her up, until she finally opened up, the bookcase swinging away to reveal a noticeably disheveled witch.

"Happy Christmas, Hermione."

While he could barely contain his excitement for what he had planned, she didn't look equally as enthused. Her hair was a damn mess, and she was wearing only her sleep clothes(which looked odd, even by muggle standards -no frilly nightgown, just a pair of oversized pants and an undershirt) with a robe haphazardly thrown over them.

Well, her state of dress hardly mattered.

"Happy Christmas, Tom," she said, exasperated, "any particular reason you woke me up? I don't even know what time it is."

"It's 2:37 a.m.," he replied, checking his watch to get the accuracy of his answer down to the very minute, "and yes. Come with me."

He didn't even wait for a response before he gripped her arm and pulled her out into the corridor with him.

"Wait, Tom! What are you-"

"No," he interrupted, not allowing any questions at the moment. "We have to do this now, when no one is awake or around. Stay quiet or Peeves might notice and that would be most inconvenient."

Giving her a glance, he saw that she hesitantly nodded and continued following him of her own accord. Satisfied with her reaction, he loosened his grip slightly.

Only slightly.

He brought her through several halls, and then down a few flights of stairs, all with her following along, fine albeit slightly hesitantly. However, once they neared the second floor girls lavatory, she began to thrash against his hold and opened her mouth to scream.

That absolutely could not be allowed.

Holding her tighter, he pulled her close and clamped a hand over her mouth, using a silencing charm to shut her up.

"You're smarter than I thought you were if you already know where we're going, and I've always known you're intelligent," he told her, continuing to drag her into the bathroom. "I did tell you that we need to be quiet, though."

Tears began to fall down her face, though the silencing charm still kept her unheard. Rolling his eyes, he used his sleeve to wipe them away. "Stop being so dramatic. If I wanted to hurt you, I'd have done it a long time ago."

With that, he leaned forward towards the sink, hissing to it in Parseltongue. As the entrance opened, he snaked his arm tightly around her waist and pulled them both inside.

As they went down the slide, she clung to him desperately, as though her very life depended on it.

In her mind, it probably did.

When they landed, she wobbled a bit, but he quickly helped steady her. Having done this before, he now landed perfectly on his feet, but he'd admit to no one that the first time he fell flat on his arse.

Pulling his wand from his pocket, he flicked it in front of her face to lift the silencing charm.

"I haven't told anyone!" She blurted out as soon as she was able to speak again.

"I know," he assured her, making sure his voice was warm and gentle, to convey there was no need for all the drama and angst. "This isn't a punishment." He reached out a hand to smooth down her hair, nearly petting her as he attempted to soothe her.

"Then what is it?" The disbelief, suspicion, was written all over her face.

 _That_ was much better. Dealing with crying people had never been something he enjoyed.

He tilted his head and gave her a boyish grin before saying, "consider it a Christmas present?"

Placing his wand back in his pocket, he pressed his hand into the small of her back, urging her forward. He was particularly eager to get to actually show her the Chamber, not the hallway leading to it.

The Chamber had been left to him. He may not have a proper home( though, to be fair, she didn't either), but he had this. More valuable than any pureblood manor, the Chamber had been left to him by Salazar Slytherin himself.

In there, the standards of authority that usually restricted them didn't apply -they couldn't, since there was no way to reinforce any authority on her end(he, however, could tell the basilisk to eat her, if he wanted to. So in this case he had the upper hand).

They wouldn't be student and professor anymore, not for that period of time. It was his opportunity to show her just a sliver of what he had to offer her as an individual, and how no one else could compare.

A short distance later, they reached the snake covered door that was the true entrance, and he leaned forward and whispered the command to unlock it.

As soon as the snakes began to move, he saw her eyes slam shut.

"Clever," he said, leaning in and reveling in the way she startled and shivered at the feel of his breath against her skin, "but it won't come until it's called." She still didn't open her eyes.

"I told you to stop being so dramatic," he chided her gently. Slowly, she reopened her eyes and looked over to him. He motioned to the now open door. "Ladies first."

She rolled her eyes, always keeping up with that attitude of hers, but stepped through the door.

He allowed her to go through first, and for several moments he simply stood back and and admired her reaction.

For the first time in all that he'd known her, she was utterly speechless. Her eyes had gone wide, brimming with what he knew had to be excitement and awe, and her lips and quirked upwards as she took the time to admire the stone statues. Not unlike his own reaction to seeing it for the first time, he noted.

This is what he had wanted to give her. This was just an example of what he could give her that no one else ever could, money and Ministry authority aside.

"Incredible, isn't it?" She turned back to him, that breathless wonder still evident on her face. "This was built a thousand years ago, and yet only three people have ever seen it," he continued, stepping closer to her, "you, me, and Salazar himself."

A moment later, he heard the serpentine hiss of parseltongue, the basilisk calling out.

_"Master? Is that you I hear?"_

In response, he hissed back.  _"Yes, it's me."_

He felt Hermione shuffle closer to him, and he turned to see if she was alright. Her breath hitched and she looked up at him with wide, uncertain eyes.

Suddenly, he understood. "I'm not calling her," he clarified, "but she can hear us and she asked if I'm here."

It was pleasing to know that, in her fear, she moved closer to him, that she sought him for protection. Underneath her cold demeanor, underneath her fear, she was still his and her body, her instincts, didn't deny it even if her consciousness did.

With his response, she visibly relaxed. He liked that too- that he could relax her. No one else seemed to be able to. "Why did she ask?"

"She gets lonely," he explained. "During school last year, she'd follow me through the pipes. If I was alone, I'd find a drain I could use to talk to her. She hasn't seen anyone since Slytherin left, so she's a bit desperate for company. Basilisks are actually quite misunderstood."

 _"Are you alone?"_  The basilisk asked, obviously having heard his conversation with Hermione.

 _"No,"_  he hissed back,  _"I brought a friend with me."_

_"A girl?"_

_"Yes, she's a girl."_

"What's she saying?" Hermione asked. "I can't even hear her."

"She's asking about you. She can tell I'm not alone and she's never met a girl before. She's curious."

Her eyes flickered through a series of emotions as she processed the information, before settling on curiosity. While he appreciated that she was quick to learn, he wished he could slow it down, observe the process a bit more, read her mind just like he might read a book.

He didn't like not being able to guess what was going through her head.

She spoke again.

"If you called her, would she, you know?"

While she didn't outright ask, he understood. The unspoken 'would she kill me?' was clear.

"Not unless I tell her to," he replied. "Would you like to see her?"

She seemed to be thinking it over for a moment, until finally she nodded, fascination dominating fear.

"Shut your eyes," he commanded. Instantly, she obeyed.

 _"Are you feeling social?"_  He asked the creature. " _She'd like to meet you. She's nice, I promise. You'll have to face away from her though, otherwise you'll hurt her."_

He heard the snake begin to move, coming out towards them.

_"Yes, master."_

Hermione still had her eyes closed.

"I told her to face away from you," he explained, "So you can look at her without worrying about eye contact."

She nodded, opening her eyes slowly.

Her reaction to seeing the basilisk for the first time was not much unlike his own cautious wonder. The beast was gigantic, with rippling scales and menacing looking fangs. Beautiful in its own right, but that did nothing to diminish the ferocity it had.

While Hermione continued to admire it, the basilisk continued to speak with him. Quite chatty for a snake, she was, but he didn't mind.

He never minded that snakes liked to talk to him. Generally he found their company preferable over people.

_"Does your friend look like you?"_

_"No,"_  he replied, unsurprised by the question as it couldn't see her,  _"she's a girl, so she's much smaller than me. Her hair is also different, and so are her eyes."_

" _Is she pretty?"_

Casting a glance at the woman next to him, he smirked.  _"Very."_

_"Is she yours, then?"_

While he had already accepted that Hermione belonged to him, the question still caught him a bit off guard. 'Mate' was a very animalistic word he didn't feel accurately described the situation(especially since there had been no mating involved), though it was the only term the animal would recognize. The closest human equivalent to that would be 'wife', but that was also inaccurate and attempting to explain human laws to a snake was a pointless endeavor(he had, in fact, tried to explain already that he could not simply kill a man, steal his home, and somehow not be an orphan anymore. The snake couldn't grasp the concept).

 _"Yes,"_  he settled on, semantics aside,  _"Yes, she's mine."_

Not technically a lie.

"What's she saying?" Hermione suddenly asked, ever the curious creature.

"She's just asking a lot of questions," he replied. He bit back a grin, content with her response to his 'gift'. "Snakes have a hard time comprehending the way humans live, just because it's so drastically different from how they live. So she's asking me to explain."

Suddenly curious, Hermione asked, "what does she want to know?"

He paused for a moment, debating how much he should tell her, before saying, "Most people think basilisks are solitary by nature, but that's not true. There's just so few of them that they're never seen in pairs, which is how they prefer to live. She asked if you were mine."

"And what did you tell her?"

"The truth."

As her expression shifted into a morph of shock, confusion, and curiosity, he couldn't bite back his grin any longer.

 _That's mine,_ he thought as he glanced over her, appreciating every bit of reaction she gave him.

Eventually, she'd come around. He knew it would take a while, but he could be patient.

* * *

New Year's Eve, he found her on the astronomy tower again, like he had last year.

"Happy birthday," she said, though she didn't even turn around to greet him. It was cold, freezing, but she wasn't wearing anything suited for the weather. If it hadn't been for the way her cheeks looked more rosy than usual, he'd have assumed she didn't even notice.

"Thank you," he replied, approaching her where she stood against the railing. "Seventeen, now."

_An adult._

She nodded, but still didn't look away from the railing.

"You know, the traditional coming of age present for a wizard is-"

"A watch," he finished for her. "I bought myself one in Hogsmeade, during the last visit before break."

Between every school year, he sold his second hand robes and school supplies back, choosing to pocket the extra money. Hogwarts didn't give him a lot of money, but he got enough to cover his expenses for the school year. And, apparently, enough to make a slight profit. The school didn't demand money back as a loan, so he took it.

"It probably shouldn't surprise me to see you so eager to provide for yourself, should it?"

"I've always provided for myself," he answered. "No different now."

"You'll still have to go back, over the summer," she muttered.

"Don't remind me," he snapped. During the school year, he did his best  _not_ to remember the orphanage he was forced back to every summer.

"Sorry," she apologized, and it sounded like she actually meant it. "I was just thinking out loud."

"It's alright," he assured her. If she was thinking out loud, he wanted her to do that  _more_  often, not less. "I just don't like thinking about it."

She cracked a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I can relate."

Just as he opened his mouth to ask what she meant, the clock tower went off. Just like last year, she shot a firework into the sky for New Year's, and just fucking left him there, wanting to drag her back.

Next year, he'd break the fucking clock before coming to find her. Next time, he wouldn't give her such an easy excuse to walk away.

* * *

"She's a cunt, I'm telling you."

After the holidays had ended, Tom strolled into the common room late, after his Perfect rounds, and that was the first thing he heard as he saw his Knights gathered around the fireplace. Waiting for him, as usual.

Rarely did he actually need them for anything, but they waited around like lost puppies regardless.

"You're just pissed because she didn't accept your obviously plagiarized paper," Avery retorted back to the boy who had made the original comment, Malfoy.

"What's going on here?" He asked, noticing how Mulciber immediately moved to the floor to give him his usual chair.

"Abraxas got detention from Granger."

Unsurprising.

"Well, what did he do?"

Malfoy spoke for himself this time. "She didn't like my paper, apparently, so she gave me a 'T'. My parents would kill me if they saw I got that grade, so I decided to handle it reasonably and go talk to her. I get to her office, and her bloody menace of a cat nearly ripped me to shreds, by the way, but back to the point. I get there, try to talk to her about it, and she gives me detention along with threatening to remove me from her class if I ever turn in a paper like that again. Like I said: cunt."

Tom knew he had to be very careful about exactly what he said, as well as how and when he did.

He was still building a reputation, still chaining all these people to him in any way he could to ensure his rise to power. It always would go best if they were willing, if they followed him on their own. Loyalty was(unfortunately) stronger than fear, after all.

For that reason, he had become excellent at reading social cues and responding according.

He had learned that there are both acceptable and unacceptable ways to verbally express a desire to fuck one's teacher senseless.

It was acceptable if it was a show of masculine bravado, a way of expressing a male desire to conquer the fairer sex.

It was unacceptable if your desire stemmed from a feeling of longstanding attraction or a sense that she was worthy of your time and attention.

For that reason, he found himself unable to accurately explain exactly why Malfoy should stop talking immediately if he had any desire whatsoever to survive.

"Yeah, I've gotta say I agree with you there," this time it was Lestrange who spoke up. "The bitch hates me. Always has, and unlike Malfoy I haven't even done anything to deserve it. I reckon our dear Professor Granger needs to be taught her place.  _Punished_."

"Can't say I disagree. In fact, I think we can come up with several  _punishments_  fitting of her crimes," Malfoy added with a snicker.

Dolohov kept looking over, eyeing him nervously, like he were a bomb that could go off at a moment's notice.

While his anxiety wasn't entirely misplaced, Tom knew better than to just blow up. It would have consequences far too inconvenient to be easily handled. The accidental magic fueled by rage or frustration couldn't be helped, though. He was still working on getting that under control.

It was mostly well managed, though.

The way the flames in the fireplace began to flicker higher and higher, licking out towards the offending(though unaware) boys, was testament to the 'mostly' part of that statement.

If Hermione weren't a teacher, this wouldn't be a problem. He would simply express that she belonged to him, and no one would ever question it. To do so would be a heavy sign of disrespect, and he had them all under his thumb. They wouldn't test him. They wouldn't dare.

It wasn't as simple now, with her older than him and technically in a position of authority over him. The social stigma wouldn't help. He had never much cared about standard social expectations, but the problem was that other people did. To keep them, he at least needed to pretend to agree, to be one of them. Ambitious or not, people were suckers for solidarity.

Rather than retort, he stayed quiet and simply listened.

As a child, he had learned how to make people hurt without so much as lifting a finger. He knew how to cause aches and pains, even bruises using only magic. But in this case, that wouldn't be gratifying enough.

So he sat there, listening to whatever lewd things the two boys could come up with, and seethed. For now, he'd let them speak, oblivious to the hole -no,  _grave_ \- they were digging themselves, let them say whatever they wanted.

Later, he'd make them pay for it in blood.

"Can you just imagine those bossy little lips of hers wrapped around my-"

"Seriously, Malfoy, shut the fuck up." Dolohov finally spoke up, probably in response to the way the air began to crackle with rage induced magic.

"Why? Got a crush, have you, Tony?" Lestrange sneered.

"For fucks sake, she's a teacher! Show some respect."

Tom blinked. He blamed his anger for making him forget that he could demand respect for other people unrelated to their standing by him. He probably should have thought of it sooner, truthfully.

Malloy and Lestrange wouldn't have had half the chance to incriminate themselves if he had, though. Even the thoughts made them worthy of punishment. Waiting was justifiable for that reason alone.

"Antonin is right," Tom said, composing himself enough to speak up. "She's your superior, whether you like it or not."

With Tom's comment, both the boys went silent except for a few mumbled apologies.

That wouldn't be enough to spare them, but they had no need to know that.

* * *

The following day, both Malfoy and Lestrange ended up in the infirmary. 'Tragic accidents' being the cause.

It had been almost too easy, and neither so much as suspected it was him. He hadn't had to touch them or so much as take his wand from his pocket to get his revenge.

As Lestrange made his way down the steps on the third floor staircase, he simply "slipped". The fact that it was moving, dropping his worthless body all the way down to the first floor, was merely coincidental.

"Tom, was that...?" Dolohov didn't even finish his sentence.

"Come on, Tony," he said, ignoring the obvious question, "or we'll be late to potions."

He didn't so much as spare a glance to the terribly clumsy boy bleeding on the stone three floors down.

* * *

During Quidditch practice, when Malfoy suddenly lost control of his broom, Tom made no move to help him and neither did anyone else. Practice wasn't supervised by teachers, after all. No need to play the part of the dutiful Prefect.

As he watched Abraxas plummet towards the ground, the movement of a bludger suddenly caught his eye.

As a wicked grin crossed his face, the bludger changed course, colliding against Malfoy's head with a resounding smack that could be heard all across the pitch.

Dolohov shuddered at the sound.

As Tom came down off his broom, he approached the boy who now lay on the ground, sobbing, blood leaking from his lips. "I think you might need to go to the infirmary."

The boy couldn't even nod, only made a weak gasping noise in response.

As Abraxas was levitated to the infirmary, Dolohov approached him again.

"Tom, you, uh, you know they were just joking, right? That they didn't really mean any of it."

He nodded. "I'm aware."

"Then why bother with all this? They don't even know what they did wrong."

_Because she's mine._

"Because, regardless of whether or not they know, they were being disloyal to us as a whole. Part of being a group, a community, is unified protection. To turn on each other can't be tolerated, no excuses. Discipline must be handled accordingly."

He knew he was talking like a politician, using lots of pretty words that he meant almost none of. Dolohov most likely knew it too, hence his apprehension.

"Your loyalty will be rewarded, Tony. I can promise you that."

With that, he left the Quidditch pitch.

* * *

He found Hermione on the Astronomy Tower again during his perfect rounds the following night. Usually, he didn't bother to check up there, but he saw wandlight and knew someone had to be there.

As he approached, he saw her dim her wand, shove the book she was reading down, and press herself into the wall. It looked like she was holding her breath, refusing to so much as make a twitch if it might give herself away.

Entirely unnecessary, of course.

"I'm sure you're aware that teachers don't have a curfew. You didn't have to stop reading," he told her.

"Sorry, it's a habit."

Bit paranoid, she was, but then again, he already knew that.

As he approached, she spoke again.

"Dumbledore is getting worried about the recent accidents, you know."

Rolling his eyes, he nearly scoffed. "I'm sure he is. I'm also sure he knows they weren't accidents, and that there is nothing he can do about it," he retorted.

"Oh? Care to enlighten me?" Judging by her tone, she obviously already knew it was him, she just wanted to hear him say it.

 _Fine._   _If that's what you want._

"I hexed Malfoy's broom, and I tripped Lestrange down the stairs." He told her plainly. She had asked, after all.

"I assumed you did, but you never told me why."

"You didn't ask. If you do, I'll tell you."

He wanted her to ask, wanted her to know why. That he had done it for her, that, if she wanted him to, he'd do more for her. With the Chamber, he had shown her that he could offer her power. With this, protection. He wanted her to know, almost desperately, but she needed to ask.

"Why did you do it?"

 _Finally_ , he thought, though she hadn't even made him wait a minute.

"Because they were talking about you," he said as he knelt down, meeting her where she was sitting on the floor. "Specifically, all of the things they wanted to do to you. Malfoy actually said he wanted to put his cock in your-"

"Stop! I'm well aware teenage boys are disgusting. I don't need to hear about all the vulgarities they can come up with," she nearly shrieked back at him, her face the very picture of revulsion.

The vulgarity was mostly for shock value, but if she didn't want him to talk like that, she shouldn't respond in a way that made it so tempting.

"Disgusting, isn't it?" He replied, as though none of this was inappropriate at all, "It's hardly polite to talk about a lady that way. Manners are important, as I'm sure you know."

Enjoying her speechlessness, he continued. "Trust me, you don't have to lecture me about that. I know better than to say such things about a woman. Whether or not I'd do such things is more about the lady in question-"

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you deserve to know."

And she did. She didn't just deserve to know, she needed to know.

"Why?" Her voice came out so small, it was practically a squeak. Being timid didn't suit her.

He took a moment before responding, to try and figure out exactly how to explain what he wanted to say.

"You protected me," he settled on, hoping she'd understand. From the very beginning when she had bought him that fucking book, it had all been about reciprocation. Even back when he still lied to her to maintain his image, he reciprocated her actions towards him in ways he hadn't for others.

She protected him, and so he'd protect her in turn.

"So that's it? I cover up your murders and defend your character, and you terrorize boys who say mean things about me?"

"I'd cover up your murders too."

She glared at him. He smirked at her.

"You'll never have to," she said, and he cocked an eyebrow in skepticism.

But, of course not, he decided. She'd be too clean to ever leave so much as a trace of evidence behind. If she killed someone, he liked to think she'd completely destroy them. Eviscerate them, then burn it all to ash. There would be nothing for him to clean.

He liked to think she'd be even more vicious than he had been. Unlikely, he knew, but it was a pleasant thought nonetheless.

"And," she continued, "you know they never would have actually touched me. They're just stupid boys trying to seem, I don't know, tough or edgy or something."

"Good thing, too. I'd have had to kill them then. That really would have been inconvenient."

"You would not have had to kill them and you know it," she retorted.

"Yeah, I would have."

Perhaps not kill, but torture and obliviate, at the least. Point still standing: they got off easy.

"Why?" Her tone shook just slightly, and he knew, for certain this time, that she was finally starting to understand.

"I don't share at the best of times. Had they so much as laid a finger on you, it wouldn't be tolerated. And now, they know that."

Actually, they didn't, but Dolohov did and he would keep them in line. Same thing, essentially, so there was no need to explain the whole hierarchy to her.

"No," she replied furiously, practically spitting at him. "I'm not an object. I'm not something to be owned or shared or used or passed around or whatever else."

 _I know_ , he wanted to tell her.

She was so,  _so_  close to understanding, and yet missing the point entirely.

"Then tell me what you are," he said instead.

Pushing herself off the wall, she moved to face him with a look of pure, emboldened pride. He watched with curiosity and anticipation as she held out her left arm and began to roll her sleeve back.

His curiosity morphed to anger and shock as he saw what she had now displayed to him.

Carved into her skin in red, angry letters, was the word  _'mudblood_ ', furiously screaming at him through the scars.

He understood her pride now, that she was trying to show him, and by extension, blood purists in general, that she defied them. That by her very existence she was proving them wrong.

She displayed that scar, that ugly, hideous word, like a trophy, proof that she was better than all of them no matter how filthy they found her blood.

She was mocking him, and yet he could hardly find it in himself to care right now because someone had fucking butchered her, branded her, hurt her, and it made him livid.

"Who did this to you?" He demanded, barely able to speak through how much he was gritting his teeth.

She blinked, clearly not expecting him to ask, to care. Well, she was brilliant, but she was wrong this time.

"Someone who is now dead."

It brought him some level of comfort to know that she had killed whoever had done this to her, that she hadn't let it go. That she wouldn't tolerate people hurting her either.

Feeling as though he needed to touch her, needed that calm and focus that she usually inspired in him, he reached out for her arm. Reflexively, she jerked back, away from him, and he tightened his grip on her wrist.

A yelp of pain left her throat, and he ceased all movement. It hadn't occurred to him that the scar might not be fully healed.

"Does it hurt?" He asked, already aware of the answer.

Perhaps to be defiant, she stubbornly refused to answer him. Instead, she just grit her teeth and held eye contact. He loosened his grip to alleviate the pain, but continued holding onto her. He had reached out to her for a reason, and he didn't feel ready to let go yet.

"I always knew I was different -special," he started, deciding to just say it all out. He understood now that if he didn't, she'd come to the wrong conclusions. He needed to figure out how to rectify that, but he'd think it over later.

"Dumbledore came to see me when I was eleven and I thought I understood why. The magic. I thought being a wizard was what made me special. And he told me about a school where there were other people like me. I thought he was right. I thought I'd come here and I wouldn't be alone anymore. I was, disappointed, to say the least.

"But, I was able to understand that it wasn't the magic. It wasn't the genetic gift that made me special. There was something else. My mind. My soul. It wasn't like everyone else's."

He looked up at her, searching for a sign of recognition or understanding in her eyes. All he saw was confusion.

So he kept going.

"But you're like me. And you know it. Third year, when you helped me with the boggart, do you remember what you said to me? You said we  _both_  knew I could get rid of it. You didn't say that to anyone else. Just me. Because you knew. You always knew.

"And now we both know," he finished, never breaking eye contact, pleading with her to understand.

Pulling his wand, he placed it against her palm and conjured a single stem of heliotrope. Gently, he curled her fingers around the stem, securing it in her grasp.

"I don't have the book on me," she said, surprise and confusion evident in her tone.

Devotion, and loyalty. A promise. Technically it also could mean eternal love, but she'd know he wasn't that sappy.

"It means," he said, gently taking her hand and more firmly closing her fingers around the stem, not allowing her to let it go, "that my loyalty is not dependent on the 'purity' of your blood. I understand if you don't trust me now. But you will. I'll prove it to you."

* * *

He left her on the Astronomy Tower and retreated to his dorm, unable to think about anything other than how royally he had fucked this up and how he desperately needed to figure out a way to fix it.

The coldness, the hesitancy, the paranoia -he had always thought that it was just because she knew who he was, that she knew what he was capable of.

And she did, but it was so much more than that.

He had opened the Chamber of Secrets and killed a girl just for existing as a muggleborn. It hadn't been personal, but obviously Hermione would take offense to that. Obviously she'd be angry.

If someone had begun killing halfbloods, he wouldn't have been thrilled about it either.

It was no wonder she refused to trust him, to allow him close. She had no reason to believe he didn't mean her harm.

He was actually surprised she wasn't  _more_  cold to him, given what he had just learned. But she was logical, and despite her personal feelings, she still appreciated his value.

And the way she always pulled down her sleeves, that made sense now too. She was personally,  _painfully_ , aware of how dangerous it was to exist as she did, and even though she wasn't ashamed, she had been made to hide for her own safety.

A sick, twisted part of his mind was angry not only that someone had hurt her, but that they had marked her.

If it had been a mark that  _he_  had left, he might not hate it so much. Might even like it, actually. A symbol to show to everyone that she belonged to him. A trophy she could be proud of for better reasons.

Obviously, he wouldn't use the word 'mudblood'. To think of someone calling her that, deeming her filthy and unworthy, made him feel like his blood might actually be boiling.

No, he chose something different. Most likely not a word.

And she still wouldn't like it. He'd probably have to restrain her, and when it hurt, he would have to kiss away her tears, quiet her sobs, promise her it would be over soon, that it was all-

No, no. That was crude. Crude and unnecessary.

He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't need to do that. If he wanted to mark her, he'd just give her a tattoo. Knock her out, if she wasn't compliant. He wouldn't need to resort to anything so violent.

Either way, that mark was the very least of his problems.

He had shattered her trust in him before he even had the opportunity to build it, and that was something he desperately needed to fix. Fate has given her to him to guide him and help him grow, but he refused to let that be all she was. He wanted more from her, and that would require her voluntary compliance.

He fell asleep that night running his fingers over the spine of the book she had given him all those years back, from before he knew what any of this had meant.


	8. Sixth Year (Part 4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all still sixth year(and a bit of the summer) because I guess I just can't control myself. I wanted to write this so I did. I'm not a professional, I'm just doing this for fun. Don't think about it too hard.

"Do you know why they hate you so much?" Tom asked, turning to the witch next to him.

It was probably, no,  _definitely_ , far too bold a question to start a conversation with, but he had a plan.

(Not to mention, they had already established that Hermione hardly seemed to care about what was considered proper. She'd probably appreciate the boldness, if anything -she liked it best when he was frank with her.)

He refused to let her think a silly little thing like a scar or her parents would make him change his mind about her, so he came to her again, finding her where she liked to read on the astronomy tower. He was determined to utilize this information, to use it to solidify their connection.

As usual, he sat beside her. She put her book down, but she didn't greet him.

By now it was almost spring, and the cold was beginning to thaw. Still cold, but the kind that felt sticky and damp, not bone dry freezing.

She still wasn't wearing any sort of coat, nor did she seem to have cast a warming charm. He figured she just didn't mind the cold, but he was still slightly concerned about the possibility of frostbite and kept checking her fingers to see if they'd turned blue.

So far, they hadn't.

He reached his hand out and traced the scars along her knuckles, remembering how he wanted to do that fifth year, and how he hadn't been able to -something about that being improper, not fitting into his carefully crafted image- though now that thought was almost laughable.

Her entire body went stiff at his touch, but he paid it no mind. If she had expected him to harm her, or be even the least bit bothered by her confession of her blood status, this reaction was to be expected.

He wanted to move his fingers further up, under her sleeve, to trace the letters of the scar she had shown him.

But it was cold, so he kept his touch limited to her already exposed knuckles, and a bit to skin on the back of her hands.

She felt cold, too. Cold and dry and like she should be shivering.

Maybe she didn't feel it. Maybe she had gone numb.

Glancing down at his fingers, at the way they followed and traced her own, she formed a curious, if not slightly suspicious, expression but did not comment on it. She didn't make him stop.

"They?" She asked instead, referencing his former question.

"Purebloods," he clarified, now removing his fingers from her own, though with a bit of reluctance.

"You think purebloods hate me?" She just barely grinned, like it was some kind of joke only she was in on.

"Maybe not all of them, but certainly enough. They hate you because they're afraid of you."

"Afraid of me?"

"Yes," he confirmed, " _afraid_  of you. Intelligent, powerful, independent, and not one of their own. Figuratively speaking, you're a witch they can't burn. The pureblood culture resists change and anything they can't understand. It scares them, so they seek to destroy it. You personify everything that frightens them, everything they've taught themselves can't exist, and it doesn't surprise me in the least that they sought to destroy you too."

At that, she laughed. Soft and melodic,  _pleasant_ , but it was not the sound he had been expecting. "Next you're going to be telling me I look beautiful in the moonlight, or that you like my hair. Honestly, Tom, the flattery won't work on me, and I'm not sure why you're still trying anyways. There's nothing for you to gain here."

Fine, then. No flattery(even if what he was saying was true). He could work around that.

"What makes you think I have nothing to gain from you?"

"By lying to help you cover up what you did, I've equally incriminated myself. It would be unwise for me to do anything to turn you in, as I'm sure you know."

"And you think the only reason I want you is to secure my safety? What if there was another reason?"

Her entire disposition changed, and he could almost see the gears turning in her head as she tried to figure out exactly what he could want from her.

Then, she said, "no."

Stubborn, uncooperative, 'no.'

"That wasn't a 'yes' or 'no' question."

"One of my best friends growing up was a pureblood," she said, altogether dodging the topic. Not even being subtle about it.

He almost interrupted her to say that was hardly evidence to counter his argument, that he had a point here that she had completely derailed, but he listened. Rarely did she talk about her life.

"His family practically adopted me, even before my parents… left."

The last part was spoken slowly, cautiously. Words chosen carefully as to not seem to abrasive.

It didn't work. The 'even before I obliviated them' hung heavy in the air despite the fact it was unspoken. He wished she'd say it, that she'd own up to it.

It's not like he didn't understand why. His family hadn't exactly lived up to his expectations either.

"Anyways, his whole family was nice to me, and they were part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. They were regularly called blood traitors, of course, but they never blamed me for it. And I've had half bloods treat me like shit too. It's not purebloods who have a problem with people like me, it's bigots. Arrogant cowards."

He ignored that verbal slap in the face that came with knowing she was grouping him in with them. Changing her mind was a work in progress, after all.

What he couldn't just ignore was how bitter he felt when she spoke about this boy. He didn't like the idea of another person making her sound like that, hopeful and nostalgic and  _happy_ , especially not when he hadn't yet figured out how to do it himself.

"So you think he was different? That, because he was  _nice_  to you, gave you the bare minimum of respect, he didn't look down on you?"

"No," she replied, slightly pursuing her lips. "No, he wasn't very nice to me, actually. Especially not at first. It would have been a lot easier to discredit him if he was, but he never patronized me. Called me all sorts of horrible names when we were younger -sent me crying to the girl's bathroom to hide. But it was always because of me, because I was a know-it-all swot, never because of my heritage."

"Well that hardly sounds better. Does the reason really matter?"

"Yes," she answered firmly. "Yes, it does."

His fists clenched at his sides, though she didn't seem to notice.

He wanted to demand that she explain, and then to argue with her, over and over and over again, as much as he had to, until she hated that boy as much as he did. It's not like whoever this guy was actually deserved her.

Not to mention, if this family was actually pureblooded, they stayed that way for a reason. Sure, they may have been called blood traitors, but when push came to shove they still only married 'pure'. They wouldn't have seen her as an equal.

He saw it; She should too.

But, he didn't. Instead he asked another question.

"Hermione, why are you here? At Hogwarts, I mean. You're an excellent professor, but clearly this isn't what you want to do. So, why?"

He knew that she had to be here, because she had to meet him. Fate. He wasn't sure if  _she_ knew that though.

As she let out a sigh, her head leaned back until it hit the wall with a dull 'thud'.

"You know, in Alcoholics Anonymous, they have this saying. 'When in doubt, be of service.'"

Brows furrowing, he frowned. "Are you an alcoholic?"

She shook her head. "No, though I do have a rather nasty habit of drinking firewhiskey straight from the bottle after a bad day -in the privacy of my own quarters, of course. But, unrelated, that sentiment has gotten me through a lot."

Mentally, he made two notes.

1\. Limit her access to alcohol.

2\. Remember that she likes to contribute.

Her answer, for that is what it was, even if it wasn't straightforward, wasn't satisfying.

She still didn't understand, still hadn't figured it out. Divination was a subject she regularly described as bullshit, so it didn't surprise him that she wouldn't immediately assume fate had brought her here, to him.

Maybe she needed more prompting.

"Why did you help me? Last year. You didn't need to. You could have done nothing. You could have turned me in, taken personal gratification in that. But you didn't. Why?"

She groaned like the question had actually pained her. Awful dramatic, she could be. "Why do you have to ask that?"

"Don't I deserve to know? You did something for me. Something significant, with no obvious desire for compensation. Shouldn't I get to know why?"

She gave him a look of resignation, compliance, for which he was grateful.

"I wasn't planning on it. I really wasn't. I just," she looked up, exhaling a heavy, shaky breath. Her fingers(still not frostbit, he noted) seemed to tremble just slightly. He wasn't sure if he should reach out and attempt to steady her, or if that would make it worse.

Playing it safe, he did nothing.

"Look, okay. I have lost all my friends, all my family, I'm confused, and I have no idea what I'm doing anymore. I'm sure that's not a very reassuring thing to hear from your teacher, but it's the truth. I didn't expect  _her_ to die, and I just want Hogwarts to be safe. I made a spontaneous, spur of the moment decision and I probably shouldn't have.

"I think of everyone here, you may be one of the few who I don't need to explain the severity of war to. And what we've seen so far -the Grindelwald attacks, the Muggle bombings- that's not the worst of it. It's going to be catastrophic, and it's going to get worse before it gets better. I just can't justify sending anyone back to that unprotected when it's safe here.

"And I know it's not fair to Hagrid, not at all, but truthfully he's fine. Definitely bitter about it, but he's spending all day outside and with magical creatures, doing what he would have anyways. Eventually, he'll recover from this. You wouldn't have been fine if it had been you. Even if the school just closed, and you weren't expelled(or worse), you wouldn't have been fine. And yeah, maybe you deserve it, but that's not the point. That wouldn't have made things better for anyone. I'm just tired, and I don't want to cause anymore harm. Neither of us need any more pain."

She was talking, rambling, so quickly he was barely able to keep up(a normal person definitely wouldn't have). It was word vomit. Frantic, insecure, rambled, word vomit.

And for once he didn't feel like she seemed to be hiding something.

Head still pressed into the stone behind her, he watched the way she screwed her eyes shut and clenched her jaw. He recognized the expression. Exhaustion, mixed with frustration.

Maybe she was trying not to cry. Girls usually cried when they were upset.

It made his chest hurt, but that wasn't all it did. There was something powerful, intoxicating,  _arousing_ , about knowing this was for him. That her tense jaw and shaking hands and quivering lip were the aftermath of his choices.

He had caused her this pain. And he loved it, and he hated it, and he didn't know what to do with it now except try to fix it.

"Hermione?"

The only response she gave was a little, inquisitive noise and an opening of her eyes. Her eyes looked shiny, abnormally watery and reflective, confirming his suspicions that she had been holding back tears.

"Thank you. I know I didn't say that before, but I really do appreciate it."

After the Chamber, after she had helped him, he had been quick to decide to claim her. That much was obvious. But hadn't ever thanked her, not properly, not really. It hadn't occurred to him to need to, until now.

While she may not have understood her own motives(in fact, he was nearly positive she didn't), he did. It wasn't about what was right or what was deserved, it was about loyalty. Her loyalty, to Hogwarts, to  _him_ , wouldn't allow her to let the school close, wouldn't allow her to let him be hurt.

Watching her body language, he took note of the way she moved as she relaxed. The tension leaving her jaw, the blinking of unshed tears away, the slight twitch of a smile at the corner of her lips.

"I probably shouldn't say 'you're welcome.'"

* * *

Since the previous year OWLs had been cancelled, both the fifth and sixth years were being tested on them this year.

In his opinion, that was stupid. The sixth years had been taking NEWTs courses all year; It should be common sense that they could pass an OWL in these same subjects.

Still, he studied. He had gone through the school records for the highest OWL grades in the past century(there had been a handful of people who got twelve OWLs, but none who had successfully gotten a perfect score on each exam) and he was determined not only to match them, but to exceed them completely.

He would have passed them even if he hadn't studied, of course, but test taking in and of itself was often about using the right words, not just giving the right answers. So if he had to learn to parrot a textbook to get the highest score possible, so be it.

It meant he was spending less time in Hermione's office talking or reading with her and more time actually studying like he told everyone he was, but she didn't seem to mind(quite the contrary, actually).

She was helpful, too. While he enjoyed having her around, being able to keep an eye on her, he also appreciated her desire to assist and that she wasn't overbearing about it. Rather than bother him about it, she mostly just graded her own work, occasionally bringing him coffee and additional references if he 'looked like he needed it'(he had no idea what that meant, but she was always right). The books she handed him often had bookmarks already placed, corresponding to the pages he'd need to find.

Sometimes she wrote notes(on the bookmarks - she'd never even dog ear a page of the actual book) with comments, questions to keep in mind, and bits relating to other subjects. Her handwriting was small, and a bit messy, but he liked reading it.

He always held onto the bookmarks she wrote on, slowly forming a collection of semi useless, out of context information that only he understood.

Sometimes, when she'd be close enough, he'd reach his hand under her sleeve, or simply pull it back entirely, and run his hand over her usually concealed forearm, gently(he remembered that pressure hurt it) tracing the letters of her scar.

_Mudblood_

Like almost everything involving her, he had conflicting feelings about it. He hated it. Hated the fact that she had been hurt, degraded, marked by another, but he loved that it was a secret. Since the person who had done it was dead, it was now just between the two of them.

The fact that she hid it from everyone but himself made him hate it a lot less.

The first few times he touched her there, she tensed and froze, giving him nervous, weary glances, and he could feel her pulse increase under his fingers. He ignored it, pretending not to notice while continuing the gentle, exploratory touch. Eventually she relaxed, reaching a level of comfort where she didn't seem to mind at all, not even attempting to pull away.

That was better - she wasn't supposed to pull away from him.

Falling asleep in her office was an accident. Too much studying, not enough sleep. Or, depending on how he looked at it, not enough coffee.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

The book he had been reading had fallen to the floor. A blanket(surprisingly heavy, he noted, despite the relatively thin material, and it smelled familiar. Orchid, vanilla, soap. He hadn't seen it before. Because of that, coupled with the way it smelled, he assumed it had come from her room) had been placed over him. A certain orange cat had curled itself into his lap, where it was purring contentedly.

"Are you waking up now?"

He looked up, straightening his posture and ignoring the growling of the cat on his lap as it expressed its displeasure at his audacity to move his own body(and by extension, itself).

Hermione was sitting on the armchair across from him, knees bent towards her chest, entirely curled up into the cushion of the chair. Once again, he noted how small she looked, though this time it was mostly due to her positioning.

She had put down her book and was looking at him. "Post nap syndrome?" She asked.

Having never heard the term before, he thought he may have misheard her.

"Pardon?"

"Post nap syndrome. It's where you wake up from a nap feeling abnormally thirsty and disoriented."

"That doesn't sound real."

Pushing herself from the chair, she walked over to her desk. When she came back, she held out a glass of clear liquid in front of him, offering it to him.

"Sleep inertia has been well documented, I can assure you. Though even if it hadn't, anyone who has ever taken a nap before can tell you that it's real."

He took the glass from her and brought it to his lips.

It could have been a variety of things -poison, veritaserum, a glamoured potion, a concoction she invented to treat what she had called 'post nap syndrome'.

He didn't break eye contact with her as he swallowed the contents of the glass.

It was water.

As usual, she was right. It definitely did make him feel better.

"Why did you put a blanket over me?"

She blinked, like she didn't understand the question. "Because you were sleeping?"

"You could have used a warming charm."

Her eyes narrowed towards him. "Evenly distributed pressure over the body increases serotonin production and reduces nervous system activity, calming the body and creating more restful sleep. If you don't like it, I'll take it back."

As she moved forward, likely to take it back as she had just threatened, he moved back from her. This time it was his eyes that narrowed in a defensive glare.

"No. I like it."

If she wanted her blanket back before he left her office, she should not have handed it over in the first place.

She leaned back her chair, still seemingly annoyed. "Fine. Good."

Great, now she was mad.

He cleared his throat. "Thank you."

The last time he had said that, not out of obligation or for the sake of propriety, she had liked it. So he said it again, as a peace offering.

It seemed to work, because her muscles began to relax, and she nodded. Then she leaned forward, pressing her elbows into her knees and placing one hand under her jaw.

"Did you know that you talk in your sleep? Parseltongue. It's interesting."

So she watched him sleep. If it had been anyone else, that would have annoyed him. The idea of being left vulnerable and unaware around others was very, very unnerving. But, since it was her, it didn't seem that way. It actually was quite gratifying to know that he had captured her attention without even trying.

But now they were uneven, since he hadn't seen her sleep. Eventually, he'd fix that.

"Mrs Cole mentioned it a few years ago. Not in those terms, obviously. The curtains around the beds in the dorms have silencing charms, and I always sleep with them drawn. No one else here has heard it."

 _Heard me_ , was what was meant by that. Because he now knew that being a parselmouth was inherently suspicious, and potentially incriminating. Especially after the Chamber.

She nodded, understanding. "Who are you talking to, in your dreams? What do you dream about?"

 _No_ , he absolutely did not want to talk about that.

Realizing this conversation was not headed in a favourable direction, he decided to change the subject.

"What are you reading?" He asked instead, reaching over to grab her book. " _Wands of Legends: A Complete History of Wandmaking_ "?

She gave him a knowing look, but didn't press her former question.

"Well, anything claiming to contain a complete history of basically anything is lying, but that book certainly does contain a lot. It's quite interesting. I studied wandlore when I was a teenager, but I never had the opportunity to fully read up on it since I was searching for something specific, not looking for general knowledge."

"What were you searching for?"

She shook her head. "Information. Doesn't matter now though."

"Does it?"

"No," she replied, a distinct finality lacing her tone.

He didn't want the conversation to be over yet, so he continued.

"What interests you about wandlore? There's so many aspects of magic, of which a wand is necessary for none, so why fixate on the wand itself, the tool, instead of the broader subject?"

Wandless magic was a skill Tom had always valued, and had taken to practicing on his own within his free time. It was difficult to get certain spells right, as they required an enormous amount of self control and concentration, but he had managed.

He had always thought Hermione had valued it too, since she had repeatedly complained about not having time to teach her NEWTs students wandless Defense.

" _I can teach you all the shield charms in the world, but what good is it if you're helpless without a wand?"_

He had agreed it was more practical than the actual NEWTs DADA lessons, which, though still his favorite, were admittedly not issues he were likely to have regularly(if ever). It's unlikely you'll be attacked by a Dementor, but it's almost probable that you'll be disarmed before someone attempts to mug you in Knockturn Alley.

"You got your wand from Ollivander's, didn't you?"

He wasn't sure where she was going with this, but he followed along. "Yes."

"Then you remember his 'the wand chooses the wizard' speech?"

"Yes."

"Every wandmaker, even the less blatantly weird ones, says something like that. Obviously, we know wands don't have feelings, but I want to understand how it works. There has to be some kind of logic, science, behind it."

His lips twitched at her response. Of course she wanted to know the science behind it, the theory. Of course the inner workings were what mattered to her.

He wondered if she would take apart a machine just to examine the pieces, or vivisect a person just to understand the way a heart beats.

He liked to think she would. Ever the curious, though temperamental, little creature.

"Well, what have you learned so far?"

"That the materials that go into crafting wands tend to influence the type of owner they attract. Certain cores seem best suited to specific branches of magic(though that may have something to do with the owner), and certain types of wood have a tendency to work best based on a witch or wizard's personality."

Her eyes followed his movements as he went to take out his own wand and held it out to her, handle first. "Is this like reading tea leaves?" His voice held amusement because he knew how much she hated divination. "Well, have a go at it. Yew, phoenix feather core, thirteen and a half inches."

Never had he allowed anyone to touch his wand, preferring to keep it as close to his person as possible at all times. She would understand the significance of being allowed to hold it.

Rather than take it, she just stared at it like it were about to bite her. Then, she pulled down her sleeves again.

Why was she nervous? It's just a wand.

"I'm sure you understand, it's not an exact science. Just pattern recognition, really."

He pressed it closer to her, urging her to take it.

"Then tell me the pattern and we'll see if it fits."

Slowly, she wrapped her fingers around the handle. Her grip was loose, like she was deliberately refusing to hold it properly. She probably was.

It didn't matter.

She took a controlled breath, looking down at the wand in her hand.

"Longer wands usually pick taller wizards, or young wizards who will grow to be taller. Alternatively, people with a flare for dramatic casting.

"Pheonix feathers don't seem to prefer one type of magic over another, though they're quite picky about who they choose, outright refusing to work for some people, or even more dangerously, backfiring spells. But they're loyal to their owners. It's uncommon for their allegiance to change.

"Yew wands have belonged to several notable figures throughout history, with a tendency to choose ambitious owners with a desire to be seen. Heroes, villains, politicians. And people with them have a tendency to be fiercely protective of the people or things that matter to them. Supposedly excellent for dueling magic."

His eyes followed the movement of her lips as she spoke, and watched the way that she bit it as she finished, looking up at him. Usually when she talked about the books she read and the things she learned, she seemed bright and eager. Now she just seemed insecure as she handed the wand back to him.

"It's not an exact science, like I said. It's more that wandmakers throughout centuries have noticed these traits, but it's possible they were biased or simply misguided."

"Well, they're not wrong, in this case."

Visibly, she relaxed. Clearly she was afraid of being wrong, of failing even the most trivial of things.

"Tell me about your wand, then, and what it supposedly says about you."

Taking her own wand out, she held it between the two of them.

"It's vine wood, ten and three quarter inches. Dragon heartstring."

His hand reached for it as his eyes flickered to her, nonverbally asking permission. She handed it over, granting it.

"And what does that mean, according to those men in your books?"

He twirled the wand within his fingers, noting exactly how different it felt from his own. Smaller, less flexible, and the engravings were different. It felt more feminine -he wasn't sure a wand could feel feminine, but this one did. Maybe because it felt like it would belong to her.

"Vine wood prefers owners who seek a higher purpose. Dragon heartstring cores are often used by those who specialize in dark magic, or defense."

A puff of air mimicking a laugh left him. "Well, I wouldn't have needed a book to tell you that. The Defense teacher is good at Defense? Truly riveting news."

She shook her head. "Actually, my favorite subject is arithmancy. And I only got an 'E' on my Defense OWL. I worked really hard to get the 'O' I got for my NEWT. It didn't come very natural to me at all, not compared to other subjects."

Interesting.

"So, you're saying it's wrong? Or do you secretly excel at dark magic?"

Her silence was telling. So was the way her brows furrowed, and the way she cast a rather accusatory look at her wand, like somehow it was its fault she just reached an unsettling conclusion.

He couldn't contain a grin. Oh, this was better than he had imagined.

"You're best with dark magic, really?"

"Well, it's not as though I've had excessive practice, but I've actually never had difficulty casting curses. Not even as a first year. Or, even creating them. I just never thought about it before."

Everything she had just said was delightful and informative.

"You created curses?"

_And cast them as an eleven year old?_

The glare she shot him was almost venomous, but it did nothing to dispel his excitement.

"Do not look at me like that. I was only sixteen, and it was a karma curse. Only activated once a contract was broken. It was her own fault."

Righteous vengeance, of course. He should have guessed that.

Still lovely.

"What did it do?"

She took her wand back from his grasp, perhaps to threaten him with it should he attempt to mock her for her past deviant behavior.

"It wrote the word 'sneak' across her face in boils that couldn't be healed magically."

His grin widened and her scowl deepened. While it didn't sound overly agonizing, that's what was brilliant about it: it was  _humiliating_ , and to many people that's even worse.

"Did it ever go away?"

"In time, but it left scars."

Even better.

"Do you regret it?"

Scowl disappearing with confusion, her composure faltered. "What?"

"Do you regret it?" He repeated. "Are you sorry? Do you wish you hadn't done it?"

Her lips pursed briefly, like she was considering lying, before she answered, "no. I don't regret it. It served a purpose -more than one, actually. She was a traitor."

There it was again: loyalty. Devotion. Even if it wasn't towards him, he was pleased to know that this trait of hers was not just superficial, that it ran all the way into the very core of her.

He left her office that night feeling more than a little gratified.

Who knew a wand could tell you so much about a person?

* * *

With the term nearly over and exams already taken, many of the teachers had given up on their final lessons of the year and allowed students to do as the pleased for the last day before the train left.

Professor Granger was not one of them.

She stood at the front of the classroom, same as she always did, even though half the class seemed to think it was a waste of time. Something about her looked different today, he was sure, though he couldn't pinpoint exactly what.

Her hair was tied back into a plait, keeping it away from her face. That was normal. He hated when she kept her hair back, because he liked to watch the way her unruly curls moved, but unfortunately she did restrain it occasionally.

As usual, she wore a skirt, blouse, and stockings under her robes. She didn't change into pants until after dinner. Something about teachers having a dress code. She had complained about it to him once -said it was 'sexist', 'ridiculous', and 'impractical'. Especially for a defense teacher.

_"I'd like to see Dippet try dueling in a skirt and then have him tell me I can't wear pants!"_

Of course he understood her point, it was impractical and limited her range of motion, but he also thought she looked lovely in a skirt. He did not express that at the time, knowing that if he did she would not be very happy with him and would likely hit him with another book.

Glancing over her again, she was still waiting for the bell to ring and class to officially start. After class, if he still couldn't figure out what was different, he'd ask about it.

The bell rang, and she swished her wand in an elegant arc, shutting the door.

She never waited for people to start listening, just began talking and expecting them to keep up.

"I know it's the last class of this term, and most of your teachers have either stuck to review or allowed you to tie up whatever loose ends you need to. I know no one wants to finish the term with a lecture, but this is not like your other classes -knowing how to defend yourself can be life or death- and I feel it's necessary that you learn more than just what is required on your OWLs and NEWTs."

Collectively, half the class let out a groan. She rolled her eyes.

"It's not like you're going to be tested on this."

From where he was sitting, he could still see a few irritated glances and glares being sent her way.

_Idiots._

"As I just said, you won't be graded on this, but it's useful to know. I'm sure some of you will be going back to somewhere that's been affected, or may be affected in the future, by either of the wars we have going on. You need to know how to protect yourself. If you don't already know how to cast a basic shield charm, I have no idea how you even made it to NEWTs level, but that's not what we're going to be discussing today.

"Today, we are going to be discussing three things: the legality surrounding when you can use magic(as in, what constitutes a life threatening situation) underage or in the presence of muggles, basic healing and first aid in case any injuries occur, and the mindset you need to have in this situation."

Though she didn't have books to hand out, she had written out detailed explanations on the chalkboard of various first aid practices(magical and muggle) and copied it onto scrolls that she invited the class to take. Everything from a basic diagnostic spell and minor healing spell to muggle methods of handling burns, heat stroke, hypothermia, gunshot wounds, extensive blood loss, and broken bones was listed in detail.

He wondered how much of that she had experience with.

On that same scroll was also, word for word, the Ministry laws regarding underage magic and magical exposure to muggles. The book she had gotten him years ago was about the laws regarding dark magic, so he already knew most of this.

He took the scroll anyways.

It may have been written using a copying spell, but it was still her handwriting. And it had useful information on it(even if he did already know all of it).

"Okay, now that we've got all that covered, onto the last bit: mindset. I don't expect any of you to have the mindset of a soldier or a healer," she said, stepping away from the board and once again facing the class, "which means I don't expect you to be able to just turn off your feelings in an emergency with no formal training.

"Do any of you remember third year, when you learned about Boggarts, and how fear is not a bad thing? How it can be utilized?"

Tom remembered that lesson vividly; It was the first time she ever stood out to him as truly significant and exceptional.

He didn't miss the way her eyes flickered to him. She knew. She must have remembered it too.

"That's all important and should be remembered in times of crisis, but that's not everything. Just as I told you about fear, and how even though it's unpleasant, it can keep you alive, you should hold a similar mindset about pain."

Throughout the class, there were hushed murmurs, but she paid it no mind. Neither did he.

"Pain, like fear, exists for a reason. Our hearts exist to pump blood, our lungs to breathe air. Fear warns us of danger. Pain is an alarm system, telling us that something has gone wrong. We did not evolve specifically to hurt, we do not exist to suffer.

"Pain sends a message. Listen to it, acknowledge it, and move on accordingly. No progress will be made by wallowing in your suffering."

She gave a few more examples of what to do if you're hurt, what to do if you can't heal yourself, and how to "listen" to pain and understand what it means.

All in all, it was an informative lesson. Much better than a review for exams they already took, or a day to play cards amongst each other. If the other students didn't see the value in the lesson, that was their own fault. Not hers.

After the bell rang and everyone left, he stayed behind. He always did. Never long enough to be late, but always long enough to talk to her.

As he approached the desk she was now seated at, he saw that she was putting away all of the extra scrolls(the ones few but himself thought to take), and packing them neatly into a box.

"Madam Pomfrey said she wanted the extras," she explained, neither looking up nor greeting him. "I knew most of you wouldn't care enough to take them, but she wanted to keep some in the infirmary. She's been wanting to teach healing as an extracurricular for ages now."

He made a hum of acknowledgement, but didn't respond further; He did not particularly care about what the Medi-Witch wanted to do with her free time.

"You look different today," he said, ignoring her statement and getting immediately to the question he had at the beginning of class. The one he had the social awareness not to outright ask in front of others.

"I'm wearing makeup."

Apparently makeup was not limited to just red lipstick, rouge, and black smudges around the eyes. His previous ignorance sufficiently excused why he hadn't noticed sooner.

His eyes narrowed, though she still hadn't looked up to see. "Why?"

The last time he saw her wear makeup, she was going to Slughorn's Christmas party. Was she going somewhere?

"Because I woke up this morning, looked in the mirror, and thought I saw a Victorian child dying of influenza. Then I thought, 'hmmm, perhaps I should do something about that.'"

He highly doubted she actually looked that awful, but her comment still made him bite back a smirk.

"If you're sick, I can escort you to the infirmary. You shouldn't be teaching if you're ill."

Still not looking at him, she shook her head again. "It's not necessary to escort me anywhere, my legs work just fine. And I'm not sick, just tired."

"Exams are over. You don't have to stay up grading anymore."

"That might be relevant if I had stayed up grading, but unfortunately I didn't."

"Then why are you tired?"

"I didn't sleep well. I have nightmares that don't schedule themselves around exams and don't seem to care about how inconvenient I find them. Don't bother offering polite condolences; I know you don't actually care and it's not that big a deal anyways. I'm used to it. Sleep deprivation won't get in the way of my job, I can assure you."

She had never mentioned having nightmares before, though it didn't surprise him.

Another example of how she was like him. Another parallel.

 _You don't even like your job,_  he wanted to say, among a million other things.

_Why do you have nightmares?_

_There's potions you can take for that._

_What are you scared of?_

"The way you talk about pain is unusual," he said instead.

Her movement ceased, and she turned her face to him.

Finally. It certainly took her long enough.

"Is it?" She asked, slightly defensive, slightly provoking. Like she was daring him to judge her for it.

"Yes. It is. You talk about it in a detached, quite analytical fashion. Most people, even doctors and healers, don't do that."

She folded her arms over her chest as she leaned back in her chair. A movement of the skin over her cheek showed that she was biting her tongue.

"Pain exists regardless of whether or not it's unpleasant. Facts don't require judgment- they simply are. 'Good' and 'bad' are biased, opinionated words that have no place in purely academic observation, nor do they hold much weight in a fight or flight situation."

"I agree with you," he replied smoothly. The expression she gave made him think she did not seem convinced.

"It was a compliment," he clarified. "That you're capable of detaching yourself from emotions and suffering is a good thing. It's exceptional. Most people can't, and it makes them weak. You're special."

Her eyes wandered over him, scrutinizing him, before they finally made contact with his own again.

"Maybe I'm not special. Maybe I'm just broken."

He didn't know what she meant by that, and no matter how much he thought about it, he couldn't figure it out.

* * *

The summer between years six and seven was the last time he was sent back to Wool's. Though the summers were always awful, and this was no exception, this year was better for one reason and one reason only: he no longer had age restrictions on his use of magic.

By wizarding standards(the only standards that matter), he was an adult. The trace no longer tracked him, and the magic he did now was no longer considered underage sorcery. Though, as Hermione had repeatedly told him, the Statute of Secrecy did still apply to him.

Not that the Ministry would somehow know if he did break it(especially considering that the trace on even just underage magic was so unreliable it didn't pick up on him using several consecutive unforgivable curses the previous summer - he assumed it was because he hadn't used his own wand, but that was hardly a foolproof system), but he hated that it attempted to limit him in the first place. While not even remotely effective, it was annoying nonetheless.

And completely unnecessary, it would seem.

The other orphans wouldn't come anywhere near him, and he didn't see a reason to punish them for doing exactly what he wanted them to. As a kid, giving a quick, agonizing, headache or stomach cramps was an easy way to make them stop doing whatever it was that was annoying. Now he would almost have to seek out victims, as it was unlikely any would simply stumble upon his path.

Luckily for them, he had better things to do.

Mostly, he practiced wandless magic on various muggles in the streets. Confunding street vendors and cashiers led to being given a lot of free stuff. In Diagon Alley, that would never work(anti theft charms and the like), but it wasn't as though he had nothing to gain from practicing, material or otherwise.

It meant that for the first time in his life, he had money that he had earned(using the term loosely) himself, and luxury(another term used loosely) items that were truly his.

The book Hermione had given him was the only exception.

It also meant he had to keep a close watch on everything he owned, because some of the more daring residents of Wool's may attempt to steal from him now that it was more apparent he had things worth stealing.

The idea to create a karma curse was one that was definitely inspired by Hermione, though he went a different route with it.

Now, anytime anyone lacking magical blood touched his things, they'd be overcome with confusion, dread, and intense pain that would only let up once they had put distance between themselves and whatever it was they had attempted to steal.

Though the idea of permanently disfiguring them(as Hermione had done) was appealing, he knew better than to attract that kind of attention to himself for the time being.

Curse in place, he was satisfied leaving for most of the day, returning only to sleep.

Mrs Cole, as usual, didn't care. She had never bothered to keep her charges from running off, even the young ones.

For that reason, it didn't surprise him when he walked back through the gates one night and found a young girl, maybe seven at the oldest, crying on the steps. They locked the doors at night(though that never stopped him). She must have gotten locked out.

Her dress was covered in mud, most likely from the rain that had fallen earlier that day, her blonde hair looked completely matted, and she looked every bit the image of the typical dirty orphan that rich people so loved to pity. She didn't look up at him, just kept crying.

There were rumors about him, he knew, passed down to the younger kids about how he was a demon who could light you on fire with one look, how he killed a rabbit without even touching it. Both those things were within the realm of possibility(the rabbit part was even true), and he didn't care that they said them. It kept them from bothering him, which was what mattered.

But now it would probably be in this girl's best interest to overcome her moderately irrational fear of him and just ask for help. Is the possibility of the weird boy lighting you on fire really that much scarier than the possibility of being abducted by weird men because you had to sleep outside?

"Why are you out here?" He asked.

She didn't look up to face him as she held out her hands, exposing palms wet and stained with dirt and blood. "Mrs Cole told everyone to come inside and-," she cut herself off as she sniffled, "-and I tried to run in but Davey pushed me. I don't think she heard me when I said I was coming. She always locks the doors after dinner, and I'm not big enough to sneak through the windows like Billy and Amy do."

Great, the kid had not only been left injured on the streets of London, she hadn't even been fed. And since the matron was nowhere to be found, she probably hadn't even noticed one of her younger charges was missing.

He used the same wandless, nonverbal unlocking charm he always did as he opened the door.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

The girl(he didn't know her name, nor did he care enough to ask) looked up at him, then the door, then back to him all in the span of maybe half a second before scrambling to her feet and running in through the door. As she tried to scurry off, he grabbed her shoulder.

"Your hands are injured. You can go after they've been tended to."

The expression in her brown eyes screamed unease, but she didn't try to run off again. Instead, she swayed on her feet a little before giving him an unsteady nod.

He found a first aid kit under a bunch of old resident files in the matron's office and brought both the kit and the girl to the nearest washroom, where he turned on the sink. He picked her up, placed her on the edge of the countertop, and ran her hands under the water.

She winced as the blood and dirt washed away, reopening the scrapes.

"You're fine," he told her, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice, "if it doesn't get cleaned, it could get infected. That would hurt a lot worse."

Gently, he used a clean cloth to dry her hands. Ignoring he whimpering, he turned off the water and opened the first aid kit, grabbing the disinfectant and pouring it onto a bit of gauze wrap.

"This is going to hurt, but it's good for you."

When he pressed the rubbing alcohol soaked gauze into her hand, she started crying and began to pull away. He tightened his grip, not letting her.

"What's your name?" He asked as he switched to her other hand. "Don't focus on how it hurts, just tell me your name."

She stuttered for a moment, having difficulty with the command, but eventually followed through. "Abigail."

"What's your favorite color?"

As he turned back to the kit to grab bandages, she replied. "Purple."

That was Hermione's favorite color. Well, violet, because she wouldn't just call it purple because 'purple is the color between red and blue, violet is a spectral color observable by its own wavelength'.

"A wise decision," he said, not looking at the child nor caring. The point was to distract the little idiot so she wouldn't cry, not to extract useless information.

There were no bandages. Mrs Cole must not have restocked the first aid kit after she ran out. This shouldn't have been a surprise(orphanages were not known for their excess resources), but it bothered him immensely nonetheless.

How anyone other than himself survived here past age ten, he would never know.

No bandages. He picked up and cleaned a snotty, simpering child for no reason.

Unless-

"Abigail, close your eyes."

"Why?"

"Do as I say, and you'll see. I won't hurt you. Close your eyes."

When he turned back, the girl had her palms still in her lap, face up as he had left them, and her eyes screwed shut.

Taking out his wand, he aimed it at the wounds, and whispered(quietly, almost silently, making sure the brat wouldn't hear anything), " _episky_ ," satisfied when the skin regrew and left no trace of former damage.

He pocketed his wand again. "You can open your eyes now."

Almost comically, her eyes widened as she took in the appearance of her now magically uninjured hands, holding them up in front of her face. "Are these mine?"

He blinked. Why were kids always so stupid?

"Yes, those are your hands. You can go now."

She nearly fell off the sink as she jumped down without looking, still turning her hands back and forth like she had never seen them before.

Maybe she'd just never seen them when they weren't caked in mud, thus explaining her shock.

"Thank you, mister."

If she ran into something and cracked her head open because she wasn't looking, he was not taking the blame for that.

(Though, if that were to happen, he may take the time to fix her skull. That might be interesting, and an ideal opportunity to try out the healing spells for broken bones he had read about.)

When he had finished putting everything back in the first aid kit and had not heard a resounding crash or scream, he assumed she made it back to her room alright.

As he put the kit back where he found it(a half empty muggle first aid kit is not even worth stealing), he ran into Mrs Cole.

"There's laws against that, you know."

He glared at her. "I wasn't stealing. And if I were, why would I put it back?"

"That's not what I'm talking about and you know it."

He refused to let his composure fall. She hadn't seen anything. She couldn't know. No evidence. No proof.

"Laws against helping a little girl off the streets and washing her hands? Can't say I was aware of those. Is that why you didn't do it yourself?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line, softening some of the wrinkles around her mouth but doing nothing to make her look less stern. "Magic," she clarified.

That time, he did freeze, though only for a fraction of a second until he heard her talking again.

"Yes, I know. I'm not stupid. I may only be a muffle-"

" _Muggle_ ," he hissed, and generally the words he associated with 'muggle' included but were not limited to 'filthy', 'disgusting', 'disgraceful', and 'savage', so he grit his teeth.

"Alright,  _muggle_ , then. But I know. Dumberton, or whatever his name was, he told me before your first year. He told me about the laws keeping your kind from exposing us to magic."

He didn't correct her about Dumbledore's name. It hardly mattered, and he was so angry he barely noticed.

All this time she knew, and Dumbledore knew that she knew, and they both hid it from him. Who else knew? Dippet, probably. Though why they didn't tell him, he hadn't the faintest idea.

Maybe Dumbledore told her not to tell him, so that he wouldn't risk exposing himself by doing magic outside school. If so, that failed anyways.

"So, what? Are you planning on writing to the Ministry, to have me expelled? Because I healed a girl who got hurt because you weren't watching?"

She wouldn't. She wouldn't even know how to contact them. And, he was seventeen. Not underage anymore. He could stop her if he had to. Obliviate her, imperio her,  _kill_ her.

Not that it would be necessary. Even if she told the Ministry, nothing would come of it. They wouldn't care. It would be his word against hers, and they wouldn't bother to sort it out. Bigger fish to fry and all that.

And Hermione would help him. Even if it got to the worst possible scenario, she would help him.

An amused chuckle left the matron's lips and she leaned against the door frame, using it to hold herself up.

"Why on earth would I do that? I'm proud of you, Tom."

Whatever he was expecting, it hadn't been that. Maybe a threat, or an assignment for chores he wouldn't do. Not a smile. Not an 'I'm proud of you.' He stared at her, dumbfounded, until she bid him goodnight and told him to go to bed.

He decided that she had gone mad with age and to never think of it again.


	9. Seventh Year (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Damage Control was deleted. I posted an explanation as to why on my blog. I'll also post a shortened explanation in my profile. From here on, the plot will not be identical to the original. I want to extend it and spend more time on the student/teacher relationship aspect(which, since people keep asking, yes, that means more smut than before. You're welcome.), because in the original that was all quite rushed.

After his deeply disconcerting encounter with Mrs Cole, Tom had taken to avoiding the woman completely. Fortunately, she did not seem to feel the need to talk to him about it, because he was nearly certain that she would use this opportunity to blackmail him if given the chance. In response, he began staying out later, leaving earlier, and sleeping less just to avoid ever seeing her or any of the other orphans again.

It could hardly be considered a loss, even if he was more tired than usual.

When the Hogwarts owl delivered his exam results and Head Boy badge, he wasn't surprised.

He also wasn't surprised that there was a letter written to him personally from Dippet congratulating him on his OWL scores, which were the highest the school had seen in over a century.

The studying paid off, it seemed.

Slughorn had been promising him a Ministry job for the past three years, citing his brilliance and charm as making him a perfect candidate for politics. Tom had politely indulged his fantasies despite having no desire to be a Ministry puppet.

He had other plans.

Since he had first learned about Nicolas Flamel and the Sorcerer's Stone(courtesy of Hermione), Tom had decided to learn alchemy(which unfortunately was not currently a class at Hogwarts). The stone wasn't a foolproof path to immortality, but it was valuable, and he had no doubt that he could use the knowledge of how to create it to go further, to build upon it until he found something that would truly make him immortal, no if's, and's, or but's.

He thought that having multiple horcruxes would work, but Hermione's argument as to why that wouldn't be a good idea was compelling. Temporary invulnerability was not the same thing as immortality, and if it cost him his sanity, the cost would outweigh the benefits.

So, he used a copying spell on his OWL scores, created a list of the NEWTs courses he was taking, and wrote a letter to Flamel requesting an apprenticeship. Flamel had never taken an apprentice, and likely received hundreds of applications, but it was worth a shot.

He made his way into Diagon Alley, found the public owlery, and used one of the owls there to send it off.

If he didn't hear back from Flamel, or received a rejection letter, he'd write to other notable alchemists and start there, but Flamel was obviously his first choice.

When he got back to his room at Wool's, the Head Boy pin was still on his bed where he had left it.

Running his fingers across the smooth metal, he wondered how Hermione would act, or what she would say.

She'd probably make some comment about how his grades were the best, but that typically people are not rewarded for killing their fellow students.

He also imagined taking her, tying her up with nothing but his Slytherin tie wrapped around her wrists, and sticking the Head Boy pin directly in the knot for the irony of it. She'd scowl at him, and it would be adorable.

Yes, best Head Boy the castle would ever see, and yet he murdered another student, and he was about to fuck his professor. And with her all tied up and marked for him, he could do whatever he wanted to her.

Though he had never bothered to test it out(the idea of using Parkinson or any of the other girls who would gladly volunteer for this seemed repulsive) there were several books in the restricted section about sex that were quite detailed about where women took pleasure in being touched and all the various ways(and there were  _many_ ) to make them shatter.

What better time to try it out than with the object of his fixation tied up just for his entertainment?

His imagination -among other things- ran wild as he imagined placing her flat against the desk she graded papers on and pinning those bound wrists above her head with a sticking charm. Her meddling hands would be out of the way, but she would still be able to squirm freely, to react fully to every touch.

At first, she would be clothed. She'd be wearing one of the outfits she always did in class -preferably his favorite. The black button up blouse(he knew it was short sleeved, but she always wore a robe over it) with white lace on the collar, and a black skirt that hit just below her knees, legs covered by sheer black stockings.

The blouse would go first. His fingers would slowly unbutton it, one by one, taking his time until he got tired of it, ripping it open halfway down, and then ripping again at the pieces that held it on her body until it was in shreds next to her. Then her bra, cutting the straps and severing it down the middle, allowing it to fall and leave her bare for his inspection.

Only taking a moment to admire her(he had plans to do so much more thoroughly later), he would move down lower. Able to tell she was expecting him to go for her skirt next, he simply slipped it up and unclipped her stockings, which he then would guide down her legs.

All that would be left now were her skirt, bunched up around her hips, and the black knickers(she looked good in black -he was sure they'd be black) that were finally revealed. Holding eye contact with her, he'd place a soft, chaste feeling kiss to the line between skin and cloth, and then he'd rip them down. As he undid the zipper on her skirt, her final barrier of protection, he'd watch her chest rise and fall. When he tore that down too, he knew it was time to begin for real.

As he took his time exploring, he'd demand that she look at him, that she never take her eyes off him. His fingers, his lips, probably even his tongue, would trace over every bit of her, reveling in the way she reacted. His mouth would glide over every scar she had -the ones on each knuckle, the one over her chest- until he finally used his tongue to trace the letters on her arm. Gently, but with enough pressure to make sure she really felt it.

He'd take note of her every reaction. Every twitch, every clenching of her muscles, every moan, every whimper, every bite of her lip or sharp inhale, it would all be documented, mentally filed away for future use and experimentation.

If she opened her mouth, if she tried to plead with him to stop, to keep going, to give her more, he would ignore her words and simply watch her in fascination, acknowledging her as the most interesting thing he'd ever see.

Eventually, he would take pity on her and give her exactly what she was begging for, but only after he had left every inch of her explored, leaving her bathed in his presence.

When he finally let her fall over the edge, let her shatter for him, she would look exquisite. He'd watch, memorizing her expression of pleasured torment.

Beautiful. He knew not even his wildest imagination could do the real thing justice. She would look glorious.

When he unbound her, she'd have bruises on her wrists. She'd finally be wearing his mark. And when they started to fade, he'd tie her up again, play with her again, until they came back.

He thought about it until his entire body was perspiring, his hand felt sticky and his cock felt limp.

Only another week until school, and he could hardly wait.

* * *

On the train back to Hogwarts, he learned he immensely enjoyed being Head Boy. Having the privilege of bossing around all the Prefects was truly a wonderful experience.

He got to tell them what to do, how and where to patrol, and he had to do almost none of it himself anymore while still enjoying the perks of having no curfew and being given his own private room.

He also got to take points from other people's houses now, not just his own. Though he rarely took points anyways(it's best to make sure people like you), he still enjoying knowing that if he wanted to, he could.

Being the last one off the train, his friends had waited for him. He had had to double check each car, each compartment, for any stragglers. Occasionally people were stupid enough to fall asleep and not wake up upon arrival. This time, that hadn't happened.

When he had gotten off the train, he saw his friends gathered around the entrance, waiting behind a short line of other students who were all being documented and then sorted into carriages to be taken up to the school.

"What's she doing?" Whispered Avery as he leaned into to Mulciber.

"Dunno," the other boy half scoffed, "but she looks insane. Think she's gone mad?"

As he came closer, he saw what they were talking about.

Professor Granger,  _Hermione_ , was gently stroking the snout of of a thestral before she ushered it away, the carriage moving back up to castle.

To Avery, Mulciber, and probably most of the people here, it must have looked like she was petting the air.

"She can see them," he murmured, not aware of the reverence held in his tone. At the odd looks from the other boys, he clarified. "The thestrals. The carriage doesn't pull itself, it's pulled by thestrals. She can see them."

* * *

After his initial announcement as Head Boy in front of the school, he got permission from Slughorn to excuse himself from the sorting ceremony so he could sort his things out in his room. He'd be back in time for the feast, surely.

The first thing he had to do was pick a password for his door. There was no portrait on it, just a lock that would open only to whatever he chose, be it a word, a spell, or something else. For him, this was ideal. If he used parseltongue, no one but himself would be able to get in(other than the teachers who had a general password that would unlock anything in the castle except the Chamber, obviously).

With that in mind, he chose the password " _Winter's Tale_ ", translated into the serpentine language only he himself could speak.

When he entered the room, he saw his trunk had already been placed on his bed.

The walls were a deep, but vibrantly rich shade of green, most likely charmed to match the house colors of the current occupant of the room.

On one side of the room stood a large, black wooden bookcase, with two shelves holding all the books he needed for the school year, as well as books that correlated to the classes he had elected to take. The rest of the shelves were empty, giving him space to put his own books if he had any.

He had a few, but the book Hermione gave him would be living in his nightstand like it always did. He liked keeping it close to him.

In the center of the room was a large(much larger than the usual student beds) four poster bed, made of black wood with silver engravings covering it. Even though the room itself offered privacy, it still had green curtains attached. It seemed the furniture was charmed to match the house colors as well, not just the walls.

The room also had its own bathroom attached, with a basic sink, toilet, and shower. It wasn't as luxurious as the Prefects bathroom, but since he still had access to that it made sense it wouldn't be. It was nice nonetheless, and most importantly, private.

When he made his way back to the Slytherin table, just in time for the feast, he noticed that a note had spontaneously appeared on his plate in front of him.

Opening it, he saw it was from Professor Dumbledore, requesting to meet with him in his office after the feast. His first instinct was to ignore it, pretend he didn't see it, and then not go.

However, when he looked up and saw Dumbledore making direct eye contact with him, note still in his hands, he knew that was not an option.

 _Fuck_.

* * *

When he stood in front of Dumbledore's desk later that night, he was offered a lemon drop. He didn't take it.

He was also offered a seat.

He didn't take that either, choosing instead to stand in front of the desk, stand over the man in front of him, and try not to show how tense it all made him. He was not a dog. He would not sit and stay and come when called.

"You never told me what this is about, Professor," he said politely, quietly, using a tone far too submissive for his liking.

"Of course," the man said, eye twinkle and patronizing smile just as present as always. "Mrs Cole and I have been in contact for several years now, Tom. Perhaps you were unaware, but it is considered standard for students who reside amongst muggle families to write to be with any questions or observations they may have."

Tom kept his face blank, impassive, and didn't comment. He had been unaware, but he wouldn't give Dumbledore the satisfaction of knowing that.

'Perhaps you were unaware,' he had said. As though a person is generally aware of a secret that is actively being kept from them. As though somehow this were a failing on his part.

He stayed silent, doing his best to control his temper.

The man, seeming to realize that he wouldn't reply, continued.

"She told me you used magic over the summer."

Tom felt his teeth clench, and his fingers itched to grab his wand, but he held still.

No reaction. He refused to give a reaction.

But he knew what this was. This was not an innocent meeting, it was not even an interrogation. It was a  _vivisection_ , a vicious, cruel attempt at dissecting him and finding the proof he had needed to get him expelled. Tom would not be giving him the satisfaction of seeing how he ticked, of giving him the necessary evidence.

"Now, of course this is not illegal in and of itself as you are of age, but you used it not only in front of, but towards, a muggle. This is very serious business, Tom, as I'm sure you are aware. I think we need to talk about it."

 _I disagree_ , he almost said. But he didn't. He knew he could likely justify what he had done because it was a healing spell, and the child had no comprehension of that had happened. He had made her close her eyes. He hadn't actually  _hurt_ her at all. Quite the contrary.

"What is there to talk about, sir?"

"Were you aware of its illegality?"

"Yes, sir. But-"

"And you did it anyways."

" _Yes_ ," he replied, practically hissing the word with annoyance at being interrupted. "But-"

"Thirty points to Slytherin."

"She was injured, I was just healing her. It's not as though -Did you just say points  _to_ Slytherin?"

Dumbledore smiled a wide grin of amusement. It was irksome. "Yes, I did. We can teach many useful things in school, but we as teachers rarely get the opportunity to teach the most valuable of lessons. It is truly a delight when, despite our own hindrances, students continue to learn on their own.

"Rules and regulations exist for a reason, of course. But sometimes what is right and what is legal are not the same thing. That is a subtlety I cannot teach, but is immensely important to know. After meeting you the first time, I confess I wasn't sure you'd ever learn it. I'm glad to say it seems I was wrong."

Subconsciously, Tom found that he had leaned away from the man. Dumbledore had never given him points before. Never. No matter how good his work was, or how quickly he had understood it, or how perfect his response to questions, he was never awarded points from Dumbledore.

It was suspicious.

Not to mention, he had hardly done anything. It's not like it had cost him anything or had been some great risk. He had also spent the summer confunding street vendors, and the summer before he had killed three people - he found it unlikely the Dumbledore would have been happy to award him points if he knew about  _that_.

If this is what happens when you're nice to someone, Tom decided he never wanted to be even remotely nice again.

It was somewhat gratifying to hear Dumbledore say he was wrong, though.

"Is that all you wanted to talk to me about, sir?"

"Not entirely, no. You see, over this school year, you will be turning eighteen. By muggle standards, that is an adult. Therefore you will not be able to return to your orphanage, and it is in your best interest that you find a place to reside following graduation."

"Forgive me, sir, but isn't this a matter that should be discussed with my head of house?"

"Generally, yes, but since you're already here-"

Dumbledore was cut off by the sound of a knock, then the door opening, and the little clap of footsteps entering on the other side of the room.

Both men turning their heads, they were met with the sight of a certain petite, curly haired young woman.

"Professor Granger, always a delight to see you," Dumbledore greeted warmly. "May I help you with anything?"

"Actually, Professor, I was wondering if this meeting was urgent. You see, I actually needed Tom to help me with something. It it's important I'll find someone else, but I was hoping you'd allow me to take him."

'Take' - as though he were a object, a toy to be passed between the two of them. He hated it, and yet if it meant he would get to be excused from this, he would gladly hold his tongue on the semantics.

"Of course, dear. It's not urgent at all. Tom, you're free to go with Professor Granger, and as you suggested, I'll remind Horace to discuss this with you later. Have a good evening, and that's to the both of you."

Tom crossed the room, over to where Hermione was waiting for him. When he reached her, she placed a hand on his back.

Teachers innocently touching students was not unheard of, or even uncommon. Slughorn had a tendency to do a fatherly-like clap on the back even when he wasn't drunk. During lessons, Dumbledore often took the hands of students to readjust the hold they held on their wands. For most people, casual touch was normal.

But for Hermione, this was very abnormal. She hated touching people, and he had very, very few memories of her touching him. Many of him touching her(he very much enjoyed touching her), but only two off the top of his head where she initiated physical contact.

One, when she had healed him in fourth year. And the second, when she had thrown him into a wall and held him at wandpoint for opening the Chamber of Secrets.

Neither of those times were like this(thankfully).

The way her hand pressed firmly in between his shoulder blades, to the way she was giving Dumbledore an utterly indifferent expression(in contrast to the usual polite facade she wore), this was different in a number of ways. First, it wasn't threatening, nor did it serve a practical purpose as the other times had. Second, it was performative.

This was protective, but more than that, it was  _possessive_. He was sure of it. She was staking a claim on him, displaying it to anyone(in this case Dumbledore) who may mean to bother with him that he belonged to her.

Feeling the gentle push of her hand against him, he allowed her to guide him forward with a concealed smirk on his face.

He had never been claimed before. Normally, the idea would enrage him, because he had no desire to be contained or controlled. But again, this was different. With her, everything was different.

Never had he been wanted for who he was, rather than what he could do or what he could offer. Slughorn sought to collect him as a tool to be used. His friends needed an enabler, and someone to guide them. The girls his age only liked him because he was attractive and charming.

It was all political, and though he didn't mind that(preferred it, even, given who these people were), he harbored no delusions it wasn't.

Hermione wanted  _him_ , and unlike them, she actually knew him enough to truly want him.

If she wanted him, he decided he'd allow her that. She did already belong to him, after all. They needed to be even.

When they had walked a bit farther through the corridors, she removed her hand. Though he felt an urge to reach out, to make her continue the touch, he restrained himself.

"Where are we going?" He asked instead.

" _I_ am going back to my office. You may do whatever it was you were planning on doing before Dumbledore interrupted you."

"You said you needed me for something."

A wry smile formed on her face. "I lied."

"Why?"

"You looked like you were in need of rescuing."

His lips pursed as though he had just eaten something bitter. He did  _not_ need to be  _rescued_ , and especially not by a girl who couldn't have weighed more than eight stone. The thought itself was insulting. But also…. No Dumbledore was always a good thing.

So rather than comment on it, he reached out, stopping her as she walked away.

"Why are you able to see the thestrals?"

She gave him a curious, and somewhat suspicious, expression, shown with slight tilt of her head not unlike an intrigued cat. "If you're asking, it means you already know the answer."

"Who?" He clarified. "Thestrals can only be seen by those who have seen death. Who did you see die?"

"My best friend."

It made sense - her friends needed to die so they would have no one to come between them. They had served a purpose and died when they no longer did.

He almost jumped when he felt her reach out, distracting him from his musings. Her slender fingers absentmindedly toyed with the Head Boy pin on his chest. She lightly tapped against the metal, traced along the edge, and he watched her intently.

"Head Boy," she mused, "Well, I can't say I'm surprised."

Then her eyes snapped back up to him, but her fingers still lingered on the pin. He was pleased that she didn't remove them immediately.

"What did Dumbledore want you for?"

"He wanted to ask about what I'm doing after graduation," he replied, deciding not to mention the odd conversation about morality and how apparently breaking the law is sometimes a good thing.

"Let me guess: you'll be working in the convenience store where Satan buys his cigarettes, living your life as everyone's favorite shopboy, though unbeknownst to the public you'll be racking up a body count?"

That was a mildly disconcerting thing to hear, especially because she didn't sound like she was joking.

Quite odd indeed.

"Preferably not, no."

She shrugged. "My mistake. What are your plans, then?"

Flamel apprenticeship. Learn alchemy. Use the Sorcerer's Stone to become rich enough to buy both the Ministry(unofficially) and Hogwarts(making him  _her_ superior, rather than the other way around). Become immortal.

"I don't have all the details worked out yet."

Not technically a lie.

She gave him a smirk and a knowing look, which was preposterous because  _no one_ knew he had applied for the Flamel apprenticeship, but he ignored it.

"How did you know I was there?" He asked, changing the subject.

Her lips pursed. "I didn't, actually. I was coming to tell Dumbledore that a few of his Gryffindors were missing from the attendance list, probably missed the train. But you were there, looking particularly miserable, so I helped you out.

"It's your last year here, you know. Tonight, you don't have to worry about classes and you can just enjoy the castle. Go have fun. Preferably without any bloodshed."

Then she removed her hand, and she hadn't been touching his skin, but he swore it felt colder without her, and then she turned and left.

He hated how she always left.

* * *

While he hadn't been expecting to see her again until the following day, fate had seen to force them together again later that night. On his way back to the head dorms, he ran into Slughorn, who had asked him if he might be able to help set up some potions for his fourth year students.

Apparently, they were doing a lesson about potion contamination next week and Slughorn was too lazy to make the potions himself despite that literally being his job. Because Tom was the ever dutiful and helpful Head Boy(and this was the perfect opportunity to steal ingredients for his own experimentation), he agreed.

When he made his way down to the potions lab, he hadn't expected to see Hermione already there, standing over a boiling cauldron, hair frizzing out in a million directions from the humidity.

"What are you doing?"

He watched as she stirred her potion, counted how many times(seven), and then halted, allowing it to simmer until it was ready for the next step. She didn't look up at the sound of his voice.

"Usually when someone stands over a cauldron adding ingredients and stirring, it is because they're making a potion. I thought you'd have known that by now. What are  _you_ doing?"

He crossed the room and placed the cauldron and ingredients he needed for Slughorn on the table across from her. "Extra credit for Slughorn."

She scoffed. "Like you need extra credit. If a severed head fell out of your bookbag in his class, he'd probably give you ten points for bringing such a creative ingredient to class."

His face scrunched in disgust. Now that was just gross -why would he risk letting his books get dirty like that?

"I'm not disagreeing, but I'd never actually be in that position to begin with."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Quite."

She made a hum of acknowledgement, then dropped what appeared to be a single flower petal into the potion, and then stepped away, allowing it to simmer. She sat back onto her stool and pulled out a book he couldn't see the title of.

Ignoring him. She was  _ignoring_ him. He was right in front of her and she wasn't even looking. That wouldn't do.

"What are you making?"

"You're Slughorn's star pupil, why don't you tell me?"

Accepting the challenge, he walked over to her cauldron and began to examine the ingredients she had laid out(many of which had already been cut and deposited into her potion, but the remains were left behind).

Aconite. Asphodel. Orange blossom. Bicorn horn. River water. Powdered moonstone.

While  _this_ brand of magic was something he had limited knowledge in, he knew enough to identify this. Looking up at her, he scowled. " _A contraceptive potion?_  Why would you even need this? You're a teacher. And why wouldn't you just get one from Madam Pomfrey?"

"Poppy has enough to deal with, I'd rather not bother her. Also, I prefer to make my own potions. That way I can be certain they haven't been tampered with."

"You're paranoid."

"I prefer 'vigilant'."

He moved back and began cutting his own ingredients. "You didn't answer the rest of my questions," he muttered under his breath.

Why the bloody hell would she need a contraceptive potion? She could barely stand to touch anyone but him and it's not like they had actually done anything(yet -he had plans for that).

Then again, she was paranoid. If this was some sort of preventive, self protective measure against rape, then he fully approved.

He noted the way she bit her lip to hide her amusement. "Why would I need it? I'm a healthy female of reproductive age - the usual demographic these potions are marketed to. There's also the whole thing about contraceptive potions being excellent for general hormonal regulation. Why _I_ personally take it is none of your business."

It was entirely his business, if you asked him. Her refusal to accept that was inconsequential.

"Hormonal regulation?"

"It regulates the menstrual cycle, decreasing the pain of cramps and making bleeding more predictable and thus less inconvenient."

This entire time she still hadn't looked up. How was she being so casual about all of this? Normally women would blush and sputter at the very mention of anything related to female specific health. Why did she not seem to care?

Social awkwardness, perhaps? Unlikely. Maybe she just didn't feel the need to hide such things from him. He liked that idea better.

"You're awful candid about all of this."

"It's science. A normal, albeit unpleasant, part of being a healthy woman is menstruation. I'm not going to censor myself or pretend otherwise simply because men are pathetic and squeamish about the subject."

Ah. So there it was.

Then, she finally looked up at him. "Can I ask you something? And, please, be honest with me."

"Yes." He didn't even hesitate. There was no need to hide from her. No reason to lie. "But I want to ask you something too, and if I'm honest then you also have to be."

She shifted her weight, placing one hand flat against the table and leaning against it. "Why Alicia? Why did you pick her, instead of another student, say, Myrtle Warren, for example?"

The corner of his mouth quirked into a grin. "Making requests now, are you?"

"No. Please, Tom, don't. That's not what I meant and I really-"

He stepped towards her, not worrying about his potion as the cauldron needed to heat up anyways, and tucked a bit of her hair back behind her ear. "Hush, I'm only teasing you."

 _Unless you really do want it_ , he thought. If she did, he'd find a way to make it work. If she asked him to kill for her, he knew he wouldn't hesitate to do it.

The icy glare she gave him showed exactly how unamusing she found it.

"I picked her because she fit all the necessary criteria. She was muggleborn, which I don't much care about but it fit with Slytherin's agenda, and she was isolated. No one was around to see her, to protect her. No witnesses. And killing her wasn't the goal, but I knew it was a possibility. It wasn't personal."

She looked away from him, towards the floor, and he could see exactly how deeply she was breathing. She practically shook with repressed energy. Then, suddenly calm, she looked up, and she scoffed.

"I shouldn't be surprised by that, should I? No empathy, no real reason behind the senseless brutality. Only ambition. Only power. Congratulations, Tom. You truly are a Slytherin."

He pursed his lips. He would hardly call giving someone a quick, painless death 'brutality', and he  _had_ had a purpose at the time. However, it would not be wise to explain that to her now.

"You're both right and wrong," he said instead. "It was about power and ambition, yes. But I do possess empathy. It's just selective -cognitive rather than affective. And I don't care for senseless brutality; It's a waste. There always has to be a reason."

"You think you're capable of empathy?"

"I think I'm capable of anything."

She gave him an odd, unreadable look then. A tilt of her head, a furrow of her brows, and a sharp glint to her eyes. It made him feel like he was being examined. "You know, unfortunately for the rest of us, I think that's true."

Then she turned away from him, and went back to her potion to add the final ingredient. What was odd though, was that he hadn't seen it on her table with the rest of them.

"You're missing an ingredient."

_Witch's blood_

Magical blood was used regularly in potions, though the use of human magical blood was something many people ignored because it made them uncomfortable. Though the subject had been addressed briefly in his sixth year potions class, he had never personally worked with it as an ingredient. It was most common in healing potions, anyways.

She said nothing, but it dawned on him when she raised her potions knife and brought the blade to her own forearm, making a thin, but precise incision.

She didn't so much as flinch.

"No, I'm not." The blood steadily dripped into the potion, and he counted each drop.

_One_

_Two_

_Three_

And then she pulled her arm away, and though she very hastily halted the bleeding with a bandage, a fourth drop had dripped onto the table below her. She hadn't seemed to notice.

She quickly disinfected it and applied a healing charm, the same one she had used on him years before, while he watched, completely transfixed. She then emptied the contents of her now finished potion into a phial, put away her supplies, and left without another word.

With his potion still simmering, and no one around to see, he walked over to where she had previously stood and examined the small bit of blood she had left behind.

He dipped his thumb into it, gathering it onto his skin, and rolled it between his fingertips. In a moment of impulse, he brought it to his lips and tasted it.

He wasn't sure what he had expected. Maybe for it to be disgusting, fitting of the title 'mudblood', or maybe for it to be sweet, because it was her.

It just tasted like blood. Tangy and metallic, the taste stuck to his tongue the rest of the night.

* * *

The first day of classes were usually pretty boring. A teacher would explain the curriculum, review the basics of what was learned previously, and assign some reading.

Having read his books the moment he bought them, he rarely bothered to re-read them again. For him, it was just a way to fill time before the real lessons began.

Hermione never followed the other teacher's protocol, much to his satisfaction. She was better than that.

"I thought, that since you're seventh years and my most advanced NEWTs students, we could do something a bit more hands on than just reading or review. You all know the rules and what I expect of you by now, and you  _should_ already know what we're learning this year if you so much as flipped through the table of contents in your textbook.

"So today we're going to be doing practice duels. Unlike dueling club, this is not going to have as many restrictions. You are, after all, my most advanced students. I expect you to be mature and responsible enough to handle this, but rest assured, if you are not you will be removed from this class. I expect you to know and use your shield charms and to dodge if need be. This is one of the only times I'm giving you permission to actually try and hurt each other."

Tom could feel his pulse  _literally_ thrumming with excitement, like a buzz in his veins screaming to be released.

"This is not anarchy. There are rules to this.  _Minor_ damage only. Minor cuts, scrapes, burns, and bruises will be tolerated. Any serious damage will not. Pain inducing spells  _will_ be allowed, but keep it to the milder ones. Cramps and headaches: fine. A spell that mimics the pain of organ failure: not fine. It should go without saying that unforgivable curses will  _not_ be allowed.

"Some of you will likely be injured. You are in defense class. I cannot teach you to defend yourself without exposing you to the risk of harm. Any injuries will either be healed by me personally, or by Madam Pomfrey(who has been warned and is rather unhappy with me right now). Any questions?"

Most of the class shook their heads, already glancing around the room looking for a partner. Tom already had one in mind.

No one spoke up.

"Good. Partner up, and remember to look out for stray curses. Sometimes duels can get messy and it's important to be aware of your surroundings. Constant vigilance."

Everyone stood up, and with a wave of her hand the tables were gone.

(Impressive use of both wandless and nonverbal magic, Tom noted. That being said, he couldn't say he was surprised. He knew she was exceptional.)

Immediately, Tom paired up with Malfoy. The boy seemed utterly flattered to have been picked by him, which was ridiculous considering he was chosen only because he was the best candidate for target practice. Also, the boy was excellent as flinging curses so he really could practice defense with him. He avoided picking him in dueling club because he wasn't allowed to actually hurt anyone, but now…

Malfoy would be leaving bruised and bloody, without a doubt. And Tom wouldn't even be punished for it. Might even be praised, actually.

They went through the standard niceties of dueling, guided by Hermione. Bowing, waiting, the whole traditional dance. And then it began.

Chaos erupted throughout the classroom, everything from fire casting spells(easily avoided with a fire freezing charm), to body bind jinxes, to dark, somewhat dangerous curses were flying back and forth across the room.

Whenever a stray curse was sent flying across the room towards Hermione(who was now systematically pacing the classroom to observe the duels), she always blocked it effortlessly.

To Tom, this was utterly delightful.

While at first he was having fun practicing blocking(Malfoy was quite good at offensive spells), after a few minutes he decided he had had his fun and he wanted to  _win_ , to cast the final blow and finish it in its entirety.

The fact that Hermione was right bedside him, watching, may have had something to do with it.

Sadistic smirk in place, he cast a body bind jinx at Malfoy, knowing the boy would erect a shield to block it. Then, only a second behind the last one, he nonverbally cast a curse designed to impact the target with the force of a ton of bricks. After blocking the body bind, his shield was down, leaving him vulnerable to the attack.

As expected, it hit him straight in the chest, throwing him two feet back until he fell, hitting the floor with an audible smack.

It left him sputtering, coughing, and shaking on the ground, having literally knocked the wind out of him.

Tom wondered if maybe his ribs were broken(he hoped they were). Just as he began to cross over to perform a diagnostic spell to check, he heard a frightened gasp and looked up.

On the other side of the room, Dolohov had obtained a rather nasty looking laceration, crossing from the top of his right shoulder to down about four inches across his chest.

In his fourth year, when he had gotten hit with a stray slicing hex, it had barely scraped him. There was a decent amount of blood, but it was due to the fact that it was a magically inflicted wound, not the actual severity of said injury. Dolohov looked down, wide eyed, at the way the blood began to  _pour_ out of him, like someone had cast a  _diffindo_ on a full goblet of wine.

A steady, streaming flow leaking all the way through his shirt, sweater, and then dripping down to the floor.

Tom wondered what it would have looked like if it had hit his throat instead. It wasn't enough to have decapitated him, surely, and most people actually survive having their throat slit anyways, but what would it look like?

He didn't have any more time to ponder it, because suddenly a blue shield formed a wall stretching from one half of the room to the other, completely dividing the duels and stopping them in the process. He had never seen a shield -or was it a ward?- like that before. He'd ask about it later.

"I did warn you that some of you would most likely be injured." Hermione's voice rang out throughout the classroom, amplified by the wand she had placed under her chin. "Overall, that was excellent practice. No points lost. If you got hurt but are capable of walking, go to the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey will help you.

"Class dismissed early today. Homework is to go through the first chapter of your book and make a list of questions to be addressed in class. Dolohov, stay."

Though everyone else began to quickly gather their things and file out(Malfoy was hilariously limping), Tom stayed back. He always stayed back. Though instead of approaching Hermione, he stayed in his place by the wall and watched.

Dolohov shuffled back, away from her. "No, ma'am. It's alright. I can walk to the infirmary with everyone else."

She shot him a stern look. "Nonsense. You're injured, and unlike the rest of your classmates, you'll bleed all over the castle on your way there. We don't need a Bloody Baron impersonation terrifying the first years."

The boy cast a frantic look towards Tom, and then back to Hermione. His face went pale. "No, really. I'm fine. I'll have Madam Pomfrey do it. Please."

"Antonin, spare me the theatrics. I'm a perfectly competent healer. Tom can tell you, I've healed him before too. It didn't even scar. You don't have to be scared. Now, will you please just-" Then she reached out and placed a hand on him, making Tom feel like his blood might actually be boiling.

"I can take him to the infirmary, professor." Tom spoke up, cutting her off. "I'm sure it's nothing personal against you. Right, Antonin?"

She wasn't supposed to touch other people. No one but himself. She wasn't supposed to call students by their first names. No one but him.

He remembered fifth year, how he had wanted to lock her up. Keep her safely kept away for his own pleasure, where no one but himself would be able to have the luxury of looking at her or hearing her or touching her or enjoying her in any manner.

The feeling greatly intensified now, and he mentally began to run through places he might be able to stash her in the castle.

"Right. Nothing personal, Professor. Please let me go with Tom."

She gave both the Slytherin males a look of indignation before making a resigned sign and shoving a cloth over the wound on Dolohov's shoulder. He winced. " _Fine_ , but Riddle, please make sure to limit the blood loss."

Riddle.

_Riddle Riddle Riddle Riddle Riddle_

_Not Tom, Riddle. Not Dolohov_ ,  _Antonin_.

His eyes flashed dangerously to the injured boy, who in return swallowed nervously.

"Of course, Professor. I'll make sure he arrives there in one piece."

Hermione cast him a wary glance, and then  _another_ back to Dolohov(why did she keep looking at him?) before nodding.

The injured boy quickly crossed the room over to Tom, and they exited the class together.

The walk to the infirmary began mostly silently. Dolohov kept as much distance as possible while still being polite, but kept giving Tom nervous glances. Tom stared straight ahead, jaw tense, but otherwise not giving any reaction.

Until they passed a tapestry Tom knew held an alcove(with a built in silencing charm), and he roughly pulled them both inside and slammed the other male into the wall, ignoring his pained gasp. The cloth that had been pressed against his wound fell to the floor, leaving it open and exposed.

Though he couldn't see bone, he could see that the curse had cut through all the layers of skin, down into the muscle, and the bleeding had now slowed, pulsing steadily out of the opening. Part of him wanted to stick his fingers in it, to rip it open and  _tear_ at it until he heard screams.

But he didn't. He knew better than to torture his friends this early on. He was still in the process of irrevocably binding them to him, and torturing them would be counterproductive.

Even if it was well deserved right now.

He was just about to open his mouth, to remind Dolohov that he would not hesitate to make him disappear, that he had the means and motive to do it, when the boy opened his mouth.

"Tom, it was an accident! You know me- you know I wouldn't- I mean, you've practically pissed all over her to mark your territory. I wouldn't cross that line, okay? I'm not the type of guy to go after another man's girl. You know it. I'm loyal. Please."

Begging already. Boring.

But, it was worth something that he had acknowledged Hermione as belonging to him. That was good… but also suspicious.

"I never said she was mine."

_Not to you, anyways._

"You didn't have to. It's bloody obvious. And even if it wasn't, I wouldn't try. I wouldn't have a chance. You're the only one she doesn't seem to merely tolerate. Come on, Tom. You know this."

Dolohov, it seemed, was not an idiot. Not a complete idiot, anyways.

Somewhat satisfied with the submissive, pleading response he was given, he gave the boy a cold, but indifferent expression before pushing himself off the wall, and turning away.

"Get yourself to the infirmary," he said as he pushed aside the tapestry and stalked off.

* * *

Having a free period following DADA, Hermione's class was technically the last one he had that day. Still seething with frustration and poorly restrained energy, he unlocked her office, sat down in her desk chair, and waited.

He rummaged through her desk, once again finding the old photographs he saw before. They made him angry, much more so than before, and he  _wanted_ to shred them, burn the pieces, and then vanish the ash.

But he didn't. Because Hermione wouldn't want that.

She should realize that her friends had existed only as a placeholder, to watch over her(though if her scars were anything to go by, they'd done a piss poor job of it) until it was time for her to be given to him, but he understood that she didn't see that, so he humored her.

He moved onto the next drawer. It was boring(does anyone actually need that much paper?), so he tried yet another one.

He found a half empty bottle of firewhiskey(he wondered when she had gotten it, and if she had already had half of it within one night of being back at school. He didn't like that thought.), and, out of curiosity, he opened it.

Wine and champagne he had had before(both at Slughorn's various events). Firewhiskey, however, he had never tried. Other students occasionally ordered it at Hogsmeade, and the Gryffindors were notorious for sneaking it into the castle for parties, but Tom himself had never had it.

There was a lipstick print on the edge of rim, perfectly marking exactly where sweet and proper and oh so dutiful Professor Hermione Granger had taken the bottle, pressed it to her lips, and attempted to drown her sorrows.

On impulse, he held the bottle up, aligned the mark of her lip print to his own mouth, and took a swig.

It burned. He knew it would, but somehow that did very little to prepare him for the feeling of liquid fire flowing through his mouth, over his tongue, down his throat and then finally blooming into his chest. When it burned into the center of his chest, feeling like it had burned to the very core of him, he felt funny. Not drunk. He knew what it felt like to be drunk: fuzzy, dizzy, sloppy. This was not usual alcoholic intoxication(nor should it be, considering it was one drink he took only seconds ago).

Suddenly, he felt emboldened. Brave.  _Reckless and unashamed._

Following the feeling, he repeatedly pressed her lip print against his mouth, greedily swallowing down more and more of the burning liquid just as he was sure she had.

Hermione would be coming back soon, having finished her last class of the day, and he had an idea. Possibly a bad idea, but it didn't register at the time as the burning in his chest, the buzzing in his blood, was cheering him on, telling him to go for it. He wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do, but that seemed mostly inconsequential.

Professor Granger was in for a surprise.

* * *

When he heard the distinct clanking sound of her shoes outside the door, he dimmed the lights and pressed himself against the wall. As soon as she opened the door and shut it behind her, he made his move.

In one swift movement of his hand, the door was locked. In another, he grabbed her wrists in one hand and pressed her back into the wall. At no surprise to him, she began to struggle in his hold.

And then he turned the lights back on, so he could see her in all her glory.

Face flushed, amber eyes practically crackling like fire, hair wild, robes ridden down her arms to display her scar, and wrists bruising under his grasp, she did not disappoint.

One hand on her shoulder, keeping her pressed against the wall, he cocked his head. "Hello, Hermione."

"Firewhiskey is the last thing someone like you needs," she replied flatly, seeming utterly unimpressed by his display of dominance. "And don't deny you've been drinking it; I can smell it on your breath."

An utterly wicked grin formed on his face. "What does it say about you that I found it in your desk?"

"That I'm a sad adult who needs it. What does it say about you that you stole it?"

"That I'm a curious adult who wanted it. And it's quite interesting you say that, you know. Because firewhiskey doesn't create happiness. It doesn't instill bliss. It inspires courage. Why do you need courage? Are you afraid,  _Professor_?"

He moved his hand from her shoulder, gliding it closer to her collarbone, to the base of her throat. He felt her pulse under his fingertips, felt it increase as he continued moving his hand up the column of her throat where it finally rested.

She lifted her chin and looked him directly in the eyes. "No."

Her heartbeat told a different story.

"No?"

He moved his hand again, this time to press his thumb under her chin, running it along the underside of her jaw. With her looking at him so directly, he took the time to study the planes of her face. Her little, slightly turned up nose and the freckles that scattered across it, the exact curve of her lips, the slope of her cheekbones. And all the various patterns of amber and caramel and limbal rings of chestnut that made up her iris.

Pretty. Very, very pretty. And entirely his.

Her wrists strained against his grip, and he remembered the image he had had of her a few weeks before. In his head, he had both his hands free and he had bound her with his tie. But in both his fantasy and the reality before him, her wrists were bruised. She was wearing his mark now. The sight of it sent a pleasant twitch below his belt, and inspired of strong feeling of possessive greed.

He wet his lips. She was still looking up at him, and he found that it sent a thrill through him that even the firewhiskey had not.

"I don't like other people looking at you. And I especially don't like other people touching you. But even worse, is when you look at them.

"Worse still, was watching you touch Antonin. Did you know that? I wanted to  _kill_  him. He's my favorite, you know. Other than you, but you're hardly comparable. Of all my friends, he is the most useful, and the least annoying. But when you put a hand on him, I wanted to slit his throat and make you watch."

"Let me go."

She didn't move again, didn't struggle, but he felt her pulse quicken even more. He smiled down at her, wicked and predatory.

"Does that frighten you?" He asked, ignoring her demand. "Knowing the lengths to which I would go to protect you? Does  _this-"_  he punctuated the word with a press of his hand, pushing her restrained wrists further into the wall," -frighten you?"

"I've been through worse. Now let me go."

He gripped her wrists tighter, able to more clearly feel the bones beneath her delicate skin. He wondered how much pressure it would take to break them. Not wanting to actually harm her, he mentally noted that he needed to remember how fragile she was.

"Why should I do that?"

"Let me go and you'll find out."

Following her lead(or maybe it was the firewhiskey's, he wasn't sure), he let her go.

Her wrists fell to her sides, and her sleeves along with them. In the process, it once again covered both her scar and the marks he had been all too happy to apply to her.

She stepped forward, until she was close enough he could almost feel her breath, and he waited. Then she slowly raised a hand and placed it against his jaw, her fingers lightly cupping his cheek. He reflexively closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. Her other hand began to gently muss his hair, fingernails scraping against his scalp to create a delightful, pleasantly soothing sensation.

This was why she was allowed to touch him. Just her, no one else.

Before he could register, the hand in his hair gripped,  _hard_ , and pulled at the roots while the other hand ceased it's gentle touch and replaced it with a resounding smack, leaving his face feeling hot and stinging in its wake. His eyes snapped open furiously, meeting hers.

" _Stop being stupid_ ," she hissed. "You do  _not_ ," she stressed her point with a shove to his shoulder, "get to pin me to a wall simply because you're jealous that I touched your friend instead of letting him bleed all over my classroom floor. I'm a teacher. I have a job to do.  _Get over it_.

"And for fucks sake, take a calming draught before you leave here. If  _that_ is what you do the moment your already poor impulse control slips, I don't even want to imagine you walking through the halls."

She had staked over to her desk, and when she came back, she was holding out a small phial containing a light blue potion. She was also glaring at him.

"You can drink it willingly, or I can shove it down your throat. You choose."

"Do you really think it's wise to threaten me?"

"You have ten seconds to make a choice before I make it for you."

For a moment, he did nothing but simply hold eye contact with her in a passive aggressive staring contest, but when she moved to unstopper the phial, he conceded and took the potion willingly.

As he swallowed it, she smirked. "Good boy."

Then, before he could tell her off about ordering him around(the slap was not entirely underserved, so he didn't blame her for that. Also… it wasn't entirely unpleasant.), she reached out again and began to straighten his hair back into place. Feeling annoyed about being bossed around and then rewarded like a dog, but also rather enjoying that she was touching him again, he held his tongue on that subject.

But not entirely. "Yesterday you told me I could ask you a question, and that you'd answer it honestly. But then you left before I could."

Seeming satisfied that she had rearranged his hair properly once more, she pulled her fingers away. "And you want me to answer it now?"

Obviously.

"Last year, on the last day of school, you said, 'maybe I'm just broken.' What did you mean by that?"

She let out a soft sigh, almost like she were grieving, but then she looked him in the eyes with resolution.

"It means I've been through a lot. I could give you entire books on how trauma changes the brain and affects the body, but to sum it up shortly, I've been hurt a lot and it has not left me unaffected. I used to be different. I used to think that if I just tried hard enough, everything would be alright. And when that all shattered, it  _hurt_.

"I've felt a lot of pain before. I'm no stranger to the cruelest aspects of magic, of torture, but that was nothing like this.

"And, eventually I reached a point where I had to ask myself 'am I going to kill myself, or am I going to get over it and keep trying even if it might not make a difference?' Since I'm here, you already know what I chose."

As though she hadn't just admitted to having been tortured, to having contemplated suicide(something Tom himself had never understood and never wanted to understand), she turned towards her bookshelf without so much as another word.

Before she could walk away, he grabbed her wrist. Much more gently, this time, being mindful of the bruises he had left, and halted her movement. "You're not broken, Hermione. You're resilient. Strong. And you should be proud of that."

She looked down, to where his hand and her wrist were joined, before looking back up at him and nodding. Then she pulled away, her body slipping from his grasp bit by bit, wrist and then hand, palm, until finally only her fingertips were touching his own and then she was completely free of him.

He still watched her as she pulled a book from her shelves, curled into her favorite chair, and read.

Watching all of this, it occurred to him that he did not understand her brain in the slightest. He'd have to find a way to remedy that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, my boy is a lil bit weird. He's kind of got a thing for bondage and a bit of a pain kink. What about it? Also, he's a creep and got slapped in the face. Will he ever learn? Probably not.


	10. Seventh Year (Part 2)

Before heading to bed that night, Tom checked his face in the mirror after brushing his teeth. It had been one hell of a slap(quite impressive, truly), but it hadn't left a mark. As he stayed in Hermione's office, watching her read, he periodically brought his hand up to his cheek. Retracing where her palm had collided with his skin, he still felt the phantom sting of her hand print long after it had truly faded.

Remembering the experience brought on a particularly odd sense of satisfaction, as well as a desire to see if he could repeat(or manipulate) the results with further experimentation.

Trying not to give it anymore thought(if he kept thinking about it, he'd never get any rest), he had shut off the bathroom lights, closed that door(having a private bathroom was a luxury he already appreciated), crawled into his bed, and attempted to sleep.

* * *

After some time of trying to sleep with moderate success, he was rather rudely disturbed by the sounding of a knock. Having no idea what time it was, he lit his wand and checked his watch.

Just past one in the morning. He groaned.

The one thing he did  _not_ appreciate about the Head dorms was that there was no secret password to get into the small common room he shared with the Head Girl. His private room was protected, but the common room "needed to be accessible to any students who may need assistance." Or so Dippet had told him.

This meant a few things.

The first being that the Head Girl(Caroline Fawley, Hufflepuff. Individually, she was minimally annoying) could invite all her (significantly more annoying)friends to hang out in the common room, ensuring he would never want to spend time there, not even for a morning cup of coffee or to check his essays before class. He could, of course, invite his own friends, but the likelihood of him doing so was slim. He liked the Slytherin Common Room just fine, thank you.

The second, more inconvenient part of having his bedroom accessible was that he was just that: accessible. Should there be any late night emergencies or lost first years, stupid personal quarrels between housemates, or anything else that the teachers didn't want to deal with that still needed to be handled, it fell on him to do so. Since Caroline had a rather unpleasant demeanor at even the best of times, it was clear that this would be  _his_ issue to deal with.

Hearing the knock against his door, he assumed that something had somehow  _already_ gone wrong, and he was being called upon to manage it.

Bloody hell, was everyone really that incompetent? They couldn't have done this before he had gone to bed? They couldn't have asked the Head Girl instead and just ignored her shrewish voice and hostile gaze?

Unhappy about being approached in this state, but he also unwilling to change into his school robes just to answer a door, he irritably began running a hand through his still slightly damp hair and crossed the room to make his way over to the door. Thankfully, he had learned to function with minimal sleep.

When he opened it, it wasn't a student coming to bother him for help.

It was Hermione.

She, he noted, was also in her sleep clothes(which for whatever reason appeared to be men's, not women's), though she had haphazardly thrown a robe over herself, and her hair was  _also_ damp and had been pulled into a plait going down her back. She also looked rather out of sorts - cheeks flushed, chest rapidly rising and falling, fingers twitching slightly, as if something had put her on edge and she thought she might be forced into immediate action.

Maybe it really was an emergency.

"Hi."

Or maybe not.

Leaning against the door frame, he arched a brow. "You came all the way across the castle, after midnight, in your pyjamas, to tell me that?"

"No, it's just polite. I need your help."

Well  _this_ was just lovely. He wondered if she knew that there was no polite way to wake someone up in the middle of the night, especially not if you plan to immediately ask for assistance.

He was sure she did -It was among the most basic of social skills- which is precisely what made it great. It was irritating to be woken up, yes, but he knew she wouldn't be here, asking him, if she didn't need something that only he could provide and that couldn't wait until morning.

"Do you really?" He asked in turn, cheeky smirk already forming.

Looking at his smirk, at his utter delight at her need to ask for help, for  _his_ help specifically, her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared just slightly. Obviously she did not find this as fun as he did.

"Well technically all I need is your mouth. It's rather unfortunate for us all that it happens to be attached to the rest of your idiot body."

There were about a billion responses he had to that, some of which were questions, some of which were comments on her odd phrasing, and about three of which would be considered appropriate.

In the end he went with, "Oh, my mouth? Is that really all you need? You should have just said so. I'd have been happy to help you,  _Professor_ , but now that you've gone and insulted me I'm not so sure I want to anymore."

For the next few minutes, they merely bickered. Nothing but petty, sarcastic quips back and forth for no real reason other than his insistent defiance and her refusal to simply beg for his assistance. Though when her voice began to raise, it occurred to him that he'd rather not wake up the Head Girl, who would undoubtedly interrupt, and yielded for the sake of peace.

As they began walking back to her quarters, she explained what all this was about. Apparently she needed a parselmouth, and he was the only one she could conveniently access since the trait was primarily known to exist within Slytherin's bloodline and not much elsewhere(though there were a select few known exceptions).

The story as she told it, was that she had been sleeping when her monstrosity of a cat dragged in a live, and now heavily injured, snake, perhaps to give to her as some kind of gift. It was rather impressive, in his mind, that this animal managed not only to escape her room and office(supposedly it had learned how to open doors, though not unlock them), but then gone down several flights of stairs, outside, found and captured a snake(small and harmless, by Hermione's standards but still significant in its relation to an average house cat), and then dragged the still living -and now hissing and biting- snake back up to where it promptly deposited it on its mother's bed.

Smart animal, though it seemed to have miscalculated the reaction it would be given. Hermione did not deny that she shrieked loud enough to break windows, had she had any. If she had kept portraits(which she didn't), they'd have likely run to the other ends of the castle to report a murder.

To him, this all sounded hilarious and he regretted that he was not there to witness it.

Her gut reaction was to stun the thing, apparently. Why only stun it, he did not understand. It would have been far more practical to simply kill it(it was injured, after all. Put it out of its misery.) but apparently she had some bizarre moral objections to that.

So her remaining options were to vanish it(effectively the same as killing it), leave it to die on her bedroom floor, leave it to die somewhere  _other_ than her bedroom floor, or, god forbid, attempt to heal it.

That's where he came in. Supposedly, after stunning it, she shoved it into an old shoebox, and then cast an extended sleeping charm on it while she wasted valuable medical supplies to heal its injuries. But since it was a snake, not a human, and she had no previous education in veterinary medicine, she had no idea what she was doing and could have caused even more damage without realizing it.

(Really, killing it would have been kinder.)

So now she wanted him to talk to it, to see if she had, in fact, irreparably harmed the poor creature, or if there was anything else that could be done to help it. He refrained from asking what she would do if she really had made it worse, because with how nervous and guilty she seemed about it, he thought she might actually start crying should he suggest she might have to kill it anyways. Or he would, because if she really did feel that bad there's no way she could effectively cast a killing curse.

He would have no such issue.

And she must really have felt bad, because she was even offering to  _pay him_ for this(an offer he firmly refused), rather than just award house points or extra credit. Had she been another teacher, he'd have assumed it was out of pity with him being an orphan, but she had never pitied him.

There was a conversation they had had in his fourth year that suddenly pulled to the front of his mind.

" _Do you often confuse pity and admiration, Tom?"_

No, he was certain she did not pity him.

When they reached her office, the door(meaning bookcase concealing an entrance) to her bedroom was already open. If the cat was able to easily get in, he assumed it was probably opened by the removal of a certain book from the shelf. Unless she wanted her cat to start knocking all her books over(which is likely how this problem began in the first place), she probably should do something about that. It occurred to him to wonder if the method of accessing the room could be changed while a person was still in there(to something less simple than simply moving a book, something like parseltongue), thus creating an inescapable chamber.

Maybe he'd look into it later.

As soon as they got close, he heard the serpentine hissing and the sound of a box scraping across the stone floor(the snake clearly was not happy about having been locked away), but for the time being, he ignored it.

"Do all the professors rooms look like this?" He asked as he glanced around her bedroom, noting how similar it looked to his own.

The colors were different, as she had no house colors reflected throughout the furniture and linens, but other than that it looked quite similar to the furnishings provided in the Heads dorms. The wooden bed frame was a deep brown, not black, and her sheets appeared to be a lilac flannel rather than an emerald silk, but the styling and structure mirrored his own with astonishing similarity.

"Why would I know what the other professors' rooms look like?" She asked, tone a bit clipped for his liking but not unusual for her. "I've never been in them, nor they in mine."

He made a noncommittal noise as he continued glancing around, though her answer had definitely earned his approval.

To his right was a large dresser, and out of curiosity he reached out and began to open one of the drawers. He barely saw more than a flash of black fabric before she reached over and slammed it shut right in front of his face.

"That's not what I asked for your help with." She sounded rather stern, but her flustered and slightly blushed expression made her seem much less authoritative.

He was nearly positive he just found out where his darling professor kept her knickers.

Despite not having actually seen any knickers, he gave her a glance over entirely lacking in subtlety and smirked. "Sorry."

While she looked only slightly blushed before, the red now deepened as it spread over her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. If her reaction was that telling, he was now positive he knew what was in that drawer. He expected her to scold him, if not for digging around in her things then for apologizing when he didn't mean it, but she didn't. She merely cleared her throat and gestured over to the snake in the box, tactlessly telling him to get on with it.

She had been smart enough to not only lock her cat away in her bathroom, but to cast a sticking charm to the lid of the box after she closed it, preventing the serpent from simply pushing the lid away and slithering out. The snake seemed to have noticed as well, given that he repeatedly heard the words "cage," "lion," (likely referring to the cat which brought it here) "bite," "escape," "kill," and what he could only describe as serpentine equivalents of vulgarities.

When he leaned down and asked if it could hear him, it went silent for a moment. Then, a moment later, one word.

" _Yes."_

He told the snake it had been injured, and that a healer(not lying if you apply the term loosely enough) shoved it into a box while she attempted to tend to its wounds, thus saving its life. While the animal was still quite grumpy after that, it no longer seemed as aggressive or openly hostile. Rather, it seemed to be pouting. It was still adamant it didn't want to be handled, however.

Understandable.

Next, he convinced it to stay calm while he opened the box and examined for any obvious signs of illness or injury, caused either by its attack or by Hermione's ridiculous attempt at snake healing. Visually, there was nothing noteworthy, so he asked it if it was in pain anywhere. Again, nothing.

It seemed that her attempt was ridiculous only in concept, because as far as he could tell the execution of it went fine.

When he offered to carry it outside, it became somewhat hostile, immediately insisting that it did not want to be touched and that it would bite anyone who tried, "snake speaker or not." Rather than inconvenience himself with that(he could just cast an extended sleeping charm on it, but why bother?), he offered an alternative: directions out of the castle, which it could follow on its own.

It agreed that was a much better idea.

He told Hermione to stay back, and to stay quiet, because the snake was still a bit irrationally upset with her. The most affirmation he got until the snake had slithered out of the room was a nod and a little squeak.

For someone afraid of snakes, she definitely seemed overly committed to the idea of healing it.

When it had finally left, she let out a clear sigh of relief. You'd almost think she hadn't seen a basilisk in the flesh less than a year ago, but to be fair, the basilisk was not thrown into her bed and didn't attempt to bite her. "Thank you," she said, turning her attention away from the door and back to him. "He's fine, then? Not hurt or anything?"

From where he was still knelt down against the floor, he could somewhat see under her bed. A small beaded bag had been shoved underneath, rather than put in a nightstand or dresser drawer, he noticed. Feeling no need to comment on it, he got up, nearly scoffing at her question. "Need I remind you that it tried to bite you?"

"Well, no, but that was hardly his fault. He was just being defensive. One would think you would understand that. I thought you liked snakes."

He did like snakes, but he did not extend kindness or sympathy to things that tried to kill him. This whole "empathy" thing was going to get her killed.

"I like them a lot less when they're biting you."

"But not when they're biting  _you_?"

"Snakes don't bite me. Ever."

She didn't seem to have a response to that, instead just leaning back against the wall. "I can still pay you, if you want. I know you said no, but it's a rare and valuable skill. I don't want to take advantage of you."

Yes, it was, but that hardly meant it was marketable, or that she was somehow taking advantage of him by asking him to translate just this once.

"No," he replied immediately. "You're a friend, right?"

His wording was very much intentional. Friends(by her standards - she had lectured him before about how he used the term too loosely) were supposed to help each other, take care of each other, trust each other. If she agreed to this, then it was a verbal confirmation of loyalty.

Almost imperceptibly, she seemed to flinch. It as so subtle he wasn't sure if he should pay it any mind, but then she smiled. "Right." There was the deal, sealed. "But I still don't want to take advantage of you."

Rather than dignify that with a response, he just rolled his eyes. Of the two of them, he shouldn't be the one she was worried about being taken advantage of. He was more than capable of looking out for himself.

She changed the subject. "What did Dumbledore tell you? A few days ago, I mean."

It wasn't a few days ago, it was two, though he didn't feel the need to correct her. Was this some sort of test, now that they had come to verbally agreed upon terms of their relationship? "I already told you."

She scoffed. "And I knew you were lying."

"Not lying," he corrected, "selectively withholding information." While he could have proclaimed his innocence, he found it more important to correct her assumption that he had lied to her. Out of everyone he had ever met, she was the only one he didn't feel overly inclined to lie to and she really needed to appreciate that.

"And what information would that be?"

"Nothing of importance."

"And that's why you're hiding it from me? Because it's not important?"

With the way she was looking at him, he couldn't tell if she seemed more suspicious or amused. A small smile played on her lips, but her eyes looked too sharp and too fixated on him for him to believe it was entirely genuine. The way the fingers of her left hand tapped restlessly across her thigh was further testament to her impatience.

This was definitely a test, he was sure of it. He cleared his throat, not particularly enjoying the scrutiny he was under. He liked it when she looked at him, not visually dissected him. "Something… happened over the summer," he settled on, realizing a moment too late that his pause was likely suspicious, too telling. So he quickly tried to reassure her. "He wanted to talk to me about it. Truly, it was noth-"

"What did you do?"

"I was just saying it was nothing. Why do you always think I did something?"

"Because you always  _do_. Not to mention, if it had truly been nothing, you'd have been talking about it with your Head of House, not Dumbledore."

While the second part was true, she exaggerated the first bit. He didn't always do something. Not a significant something, anyways.

"I used magic over the summer," he finally said. There. An explanation.

"You're an adult. It's not like that's illegal."

He didn't even mean to say the next thing he did, and he was certain it was unwise to say so, but he blamed it on a brief lapse in self restraint caused by excessive interrogation. "No, but using it in the direction of a muggle's person typically is considered frowned upon."

Her hand left her thigh and ran itself down over her face with a soft groan. "I can't say I didn't expect this, but what did you do, exactly? And  _why_ did you allow yourself to get caught?"

Well now she was just making him sound negligent. Quite rude of her. Not very friendly at all.

"I didn't 'allow' myself to get caught. It's hardly my fault that Dumbledore recruited muggles to spy on me! Which you could have warned me about, by the way."

"What are you talking about?"

"Mrs Cole saw me use magic to heal a kid, which I only did because  _she_ didn't restock the muggle medical supplies, and wrote to tell Dumbledore all about it."

This was Mrs Cole's fault, and Dumbledore's fault. Maybe even hers for not telling him about the spies, if she knew about them(though she probably didn't). Not his.

Suddenly, her hand dropped like dead weight from where it had previously been rubbing her temple, and she was no longer leaning against the wall but standing straight, gaze hardened in his direction. "You did  _what_?"

He wasn't sure if he should glare at her or roll his eyes. Not to mention, of everything he did over the summer, this was probably the least morally questionable. "I told the little moron to close her eyes! It's not like I just took out a wand in front of her! She didn't even know what happened. It was only because Mrs Cole was bloody spying on me that anyone saw. I'm not stupid enough to make such careless mistakes, so spare me the lecture."

He said the last bit with a sneer, practically spitting the words. It's not like he was careless or stupid, and he didn't appreciate being talked to like this was something he had done wrong.

She shook her head in an exasperated motion. "That's not what I'm getting at at all. I just - you're really telling me that you did something nice, for a muggle, with no ulterior motive?"

It occurred to him that he may have misinterpreted her previous reaction.

Not sure how else to respond, he shrugged. It's not like he expected her to believe anything, given how she always seemed to think he was lying. Hopefully that would change now. "She was already hurt and I wanted to try out the healing spells you showed us last term."

"And Dumbledore had a problem with this?"

He pursed his lips, feeling suddenly reminded of why he hadn't told her about it when she asked the first time. "No, actually. He didn't. Not that he revealed, anyways. I thought he might try to expel me, because technically it was illegal, but he didn't."

Out of reflex, his hand moved to his robe pocket and ran his fingers over the wood of his wand. When he looked up, he saw her looking at him with furrowed brows and a bit lip, her feelings about this seeming to mimic his own: apprehension. "What did he do? He obviously didn't give you detention or put you on any sort of academic probation, because I'd have heard about it."

"No, he didn't. He gave thirty points to Slytherin -which, mind you, he's never done before- and told me that sometimes breaking the law is necessary to do what's right. It was rather uncomfortable, to say the least."

Suddenly, her face paled dramatically and her eyes widened. She had the visual expression of someone who had just been slapped and hadn't yet figured it out. Then, slowly, as though she were suddenly understanding, the color returned to her face and her hands balled into fists. The rise and fall of her chest was too steady, too even, to the point he could tell she was trying to keep it controlled. To anyone else, it may have seemed subtle. Barely noticeable. But to him, it was a blaring alarm.

"Tom, I know you don't really take it well when people tell you to do things, but please listen, if only just this once. Don't let yourself think that his sudden approval of you means you have him wrapped around your finger like the rest of the staff. If anything, you only have further reason to be wary of him."

"...Why?"

"Because being cautious is a rational reaction to suspicious behavior?" Despite her overall defensive demeanor, the corner of her lips quirked just slightly, as though his question had amused her.

"Why is it suspicious? You really think it's that unlikely he changed his mind about me?" It shouldn't be, by the standards of a reasonable person. Since he had come to Hogwarts, Tom had done his best to seem utterly inconspicuous. Now that he had been caught healing a poor, innocent little muggle girl, he should be considered a certified Nice Boy. To the rest of the staff(lovely Professor Granger and her unreasonable paranoia excluded), he was.

But he knew she was right. This was Dumbledore, and Dumbledore had had it out for him since before they had even met and Mrs Cole had poisoned his perception of him. The question was more how  _she_ knew, because clearly there was something she wasn't telling him.

To be fair, there was always something she wasn't telling him, but he was planning on rectifying that by utilizing their now clearly defined and verbally agreed upon friendship.

"Shouldn't you be getting back to bed?" She said suddenly, no subtlety to her attempt at changing the subject.

"Need I remind you that you're the one who woke me up?"

"No. But you have class tomorrow and you can't just stay out all night. Thank you, for your help, but you really need to be off to bed now."

Deciding not to argue(she wouldn't care that the Head Boy and Girl didn't have curfew, nor did he want a lecture on the effects of sleep deprivation, and he wasn't certain that pulling the 'but we're friends' card would work this early, or that it wouldn't possibly backfire), but still thoroughly annoyed with her, he rolled his eyes.

Just as he began turning to leave, he felt her hand grasping his own. "Tom, wait." Immediately, he stopped, gripping her hand tighter within his own, previous irritation quickly forgotten.

This was something they had never done before. Hand holding was supposed to be rather intimate, wasn't it? The childish, innocent kind of intimate, but intimate nonetheless. Close. Trusting.

And she had initiated it.

He didn't verbally reply, instead waiting for her to speak first, but he held eye contact as he gave her hand a soft, but reassuring grip. Her fingers twitched, perhaps only now realizing what she had done, but he didn't let go.

By the looks of it, her choice to grab him had been impulsive. Not really wanting to leave anyways, he didn't mind. She opened and shut her mouth a few times, likely trying to decide what to say, before finally deciding on, "Please be careful."

She didn't specify why he needed to be careful, but he knew what she meant.

"I'm always careful."

"You know, somehow I don't find that very reassuring."

In another situation, he may had been offended at her insinuation he lacked self preservation - it's not like he ended up in Slytherin for nothing. But now, he found her insistence on protecting him to be somewhat endearing.

The secret keeping was a problem he would need to address later, he decided, because now wasn't an opportune moment.

"I'll be careful," he said instead, deciding that a rephrasing of his former answer might be better received.

She nodded before squeezing his hand lightly in confirmation and then letting go.

* * *

Having charmed his wand to go off in the morning, he only got about three more hours of sleep before the light and buzzing of his alarm woke him up. Though he could have slept in, he saw no reason to. Waking up early meant that no one was around to bother him throughout breakfast, allowing him to either finish homework or do additional reading. Sleep was something he could catch up on over the summer, but his time within Hogwarts was both valuable and limited.

Hermione wasn't at breakfast. No matter how tired she was or how little sleep she got, she still had always followed a schedule and woke up at the same time each day, not unlike himself. Having taken the time to memorize that schedule, he  _knew_ she should be awake by now.

It was also somewhat disconcerting to realize that Dumbledore wasn't there either. While he hadn't taken to genuinely spying on the man(that was reserved exclusively for Hermione Granger, as she was the only one intriguing enough to warrant such attention), his absence was still notable. Usually, those two were the only professors who got up as soon as breakfast was served. This morning, the staff table was empty and he was among the less than half dozen students in the entire school who were currently scattered throughout the Great Hall.

When he had finished eating and neither had arrived, he decided to go looking for Hermione. Since he had learned her schedule, it had been a comfort to always know where are was and what she was doing - not knowing now seemed to bring on a surprisingly strong sense of unease. He noted that feeling with clinical detachment, deciding not to question it further. Wanting to know where a person who belonged to you was at all times was rational, after all. It was merely the physiological response that was interesting.

First, he checked her office, thinking that maybe she just overslept. After repeatedly knocking against the bookcase hiding the entrance to her room, and finding that her cat had already been fed by her desk, he deduced that she hadn't simply overslept.

Feeling disconcerted about her seeming disappearance, he decided to keep looking. When he used a modified 'point me' charm that brought him in front of Dumbledore's office, he definitely felt justified in his increasing concern. Upon hearing distorted, but familiar, voices, he cast a disillusionment charm and placed himself by the door so he could listen.

The first thing he heard clearly he recognized as coming from Hermione, confirming that she was in there.

"I know I came to you for help. And I know I'm not in much of a position to be making demands for that reason alone, but I don't care. You're not my professor anymore and I'm not going to hold my tongue on this. I'm telling you now: leave him alone. I don't care what you think you might see in him. I know what you're doing, and unless you attempt to involve him, I won't interfere."

Tom was suddenly wishing he had gotten here earlier, because this was obviously an extremely important conversation and he had none of the necessary context to understand it.

Hermione never went to Hogwarts. He had checked all the school records. And, even if she had changed her name, she was young. Someone here would have recognized her. Assuming she was talking to Dumbledore(this was his office), how could he have been her professor?

Besides that, what could he(of all people) be planning that was important enough that Hermione would feel the need to threaten to interfere?

"It truly is lovely to see a woman full of such vindication, but unfortunately I'm not entirely sure what it is you're accusing me of."

 _That_ voice confirmed it was Dumbledore she was talking to.

The next thing he heard was a scoff, and then, "please do not insult my intelligence. I know this probably looks like a goldmine to you - a talented, vulnerable young person eager to prove himself. But, for everyone's sake, I'm hoping you're not idealistic enough to let that blind you. Tom Riddle is not going to be your next Newt Scamander.

"He's not going to follow your orders, or follow whatever vague clues you just conveniently decide to drop in his lap. You're going to leave him alone. Whatever it is you're planning, I'm telling you now: stop it."

More important information without context. And, more frustrating yet, it involved  _him_. He was certain he was not hearing things, that he definitely heard Hermione say his name. Why she would compare him to an author of a book about magical creatures was unknown and…. Odd. Writing a book was not something he had any desire to do, and regardless he could tell that wasn't really what all this was about.

There was also a certain sense of anger he felt at the betrayal that she'd talk about him to Dumbledore, but for now he ignored it. Perhaps she had a reason that could justify it. Unlikely, but he wasn't willing to crucify her without knowing for sure.

So he kept listening.

"Your dedication to the protection of others is admirable, and your suspicions not unfounded, but I ask that you not let your resentment towards me prevent you from thinking rationally. Knowing everything I know, do you really think I would think it wise to send him? Do you truly believe that I would even expect him to follow orders, should I give him any?"

A beat of silence was shared between the two of them, but the tension was palpable. He almost smirked at how condescending Dumbledore was being. Apparently that was not a tone he reserved exclusively for students.

"I don't know" she finally said, voice sounding cold and stiff compared to its earlier righteousness. "I think it would be both unwise and immoral of you to do so. But I also don't think that means you wouldn't do it."

"Hermione, I truly am sorry for what you have been through, and for what happened to your friend, but-"

" _Don't_." She all but hissed the word, spitting it as though it were laced with venom. He had never heard that type of anger in her tone before, not even towards himself(and he had gotten rather excellent at making her angry). He had seen her scream and cry, but this lacked the typically outward expression associated with rage. It sounded deliberately strained, like she was holding back as much as she could.

"But you should not allow that to make you blind," Dumbledore said, finishing him former sentence. "I merely wish to reassure you that I have no ill intentions towards him, and no plans to proceed as you seem to fear I would."

He still had no idea what they were talking about, though to say he was now dying to know wouldn't be too much of an understatement.

"Then I suppose we have nothing else to say."

"For now, it seems. Have a lovely day, Hermione. I appreciate you stopping by for tea."

The next thing he heard were footsteps, and he scrambled away from the door as quickly as possible while still being conscious of the noise he made.

It wouldn't do to blow his cover  _now_.

The door opened, and out walked a thoroughly rattled looking Professor Granger, her hair seeming to practically spark as her magic attempted to contain itself. He stayed pressed against the wall, doing his best to not even breathe(not unlike the way he often found her, he noted, though she of course had no reason to be hiding. He could not currently say the same for himself).

Still,  _somehow_  she knew, turning to look directly at him with an incredulous expression. He wasn't even visible right now, so she really shouldn't have known he was there, but obviously she did. He still said nothing, half hoping that if he were quiet and still enough, she'd convince herself she was imagining his presence.

With a glance through the halls(which must have been clear, judging by what she did next), she pulled out her wand, and pointed it directly at him. Seeing  _her_ wand, he pulled his own, fully ready to erect a shield if necessary, when suddenly he felt a warm sensation drip down his head as the disillusionment charm faded.

"How did you-"

"I've been your teacher for the last five years. I know you well enough to know, first of all, that you would do something like this and that nothing I say will deter you, and second, what your magical signature feels like. We can talk about what you thought you heard later. For now, you need to get ready for class."

He lifted himself up off the floor with as much dignity and grace as he could muster, somewhat embarrassed about having just been caught eavesdropping but refusing to demonstrate that embarrassment. It was not a particularly flattering light to be seen in, but he wouldn't let himself seem like a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar. Mentally, he decided to check the restricted section for spying charms, if only so that this incident would never be repeated again.

She raised a brow, almost like she were daring him to respond.

If she expected him to self-flagellate for him, she was going to be disappointed. Instead, he just nodded. While he was dying to know what that had been about, it might not be terrible to have a few hours to think over his questions before he saw her next…

And to write all of what he heard down in his diary, fearing the worst was that she decided to obliviate him when his back was turned.

* * *

Transfiguration was supposed to be his first class of the day, but after what he heard, he decided to skip it.

Skipping classes -even Dumbledore's- was not something Tom liked to make a habit of doing. Every class was an opportunity to gain something, even if it was only house points or social status, and by skipping he lost not only the opportunity to learn, but the appearance of a spotless reputation.

Sacrifices must be made for a reason, he decided. Skipping one class would hardly affect him(Dumbledore never liked him anyways), and forgetting what he heard was definitely the greater of the two evils. He'd tell Madam Pomfrey he was feeling unwell(headache makes a great short term excuse), and no one would question the Head Boy.

Slughorn's class, however, he refused to miss. Potions was his second favorite class, not because it was interesting, but because he could very easily multitask. Slughorn awarded him points left and right with little to no effort on his part, and since making a potion was more about following directions than concentration, he could spend the class contemplating other things and still get full credit.

This year, Slughorn was starting off with a unit about poisons and antidotes. He stood at the front of the class in front of a large table display of potions and began to explain and describe the properties of each one.

How to kill a person was something Tom was more than a little familiar with, so while the rest of the class cringed and gasped at the dramatized descriptions of various potions, he sat quietly and occasionally answered any questions Slughorn had asked while coincidentally staring directly at him.

Despite being in Slytherin, the man seemed to have no sense of subtlety.

When he reached the very end of the table, down to the last potion, he placed his hand on the lid of the final cauldron, pausing to speak before opening it.

"This here might just be the most dangerous potion in this room. Do we have any guesses on what it may be?"

No hands raised. He had already shown several poisons that can kill you a thousand times over with just a single drop - What could be more dangerous than death? Nothing, obviously. This was all just a theatrical attempt to display wisdom.

Slughorn chuckled. "No guesses? Well, perhaps you're in need of a hint. Here we go," he said, only now uncovering the cauldron.

The entire class began to lean forward, as though being pulled by some invisible magnet, towards the pearlescent steam of the potion. One breath was all it took - Tom thought he might actually be sick.

Not because it smelled  _bad_ , no, not at all. Quite the opposite. It was precisely the alluring, siren's call-like nature of the potion that made him want to hurl and flee the room. The overbearing, damn near  _overpowering,_ scent of parchment, leather bound books, and vanilla noted soap filled the room in a way he desperately forced himself to view as nauseating, not pleasant. He forced himself as far back into his chair as possible, making himself focus on how he felt his bones begin to grind against the wood, keeping his person as physically far away from the fumes as he could without getting up and running out.

It occurred to him that maybe he should have skipped the entire day of classes. It's not like he had DADA today anyways.

Love potions in general(though especially Amortentia) were a subject he was a bit touchy about - understandably so, given that that potion was the entire reason he was conceived in the first place.

"Any guesses now?" Slughorn was expectantly looking at him again. This time, he refused to answer. With as much defiance as he could conveniently demonstrate, he kept his jaw locked. Part of him was afraid to even open his mouth while that potion was uncovered, lest he somehow accidentally ingest any through inhalation alone.

A flicker of disappointment crossed over Slughorn's face, but he recovered quickly. "Quite alright, quite alright. Perhaps it's for the best that you've no exposure to this before."

He closed the lid, once again covering the potion and staunching the noxious fumes.

With a deep, controlled breath, Tom noted that the scent was gone, along with the smothering, claustrophobic feeling that accompanied it. Much better.

" _That,_ was Amortentia," Slughorn continued, as though anyone needed an explanation. "The most powerful love potion in the world. Though it won't directly kill or maim you, it's destructive capabilities are truly unmatched."

Tom raised his hand. Slughorn excitedly waved over to him around in exaggerated manner, prompting him to speak. "Can you explain that, sir? The destructive capabilities."

While he understood calling it a poison(it did strip someone of their ability to think freely, not unlike an Imperius curse), he would hardly call that destructive. A person affected could just wait until the potion wore off, and then leave of their own free will just fine, completely unharmed until their abandoned son comes back sixteen years later and kills them.

Hardly more destructive than say, A Draught of Living Death, or any other slow acting poison.

Slughorn smiled at him, a cheeky, somewhat mischievous glint looking out of place in his eyes. "Why, you wouldn't happen to be a romantic, would you boy?"

Throughout the room, girls began to giggle to each other in hushed little whispers, no doubt about how they thought it was  _so sweet_  and  _just plain charming._  They would likely have not had a similar reaction had they known he wanted to weaponize the concept.

In a polite, mock bashful gesture, he slightly lowered his head and allowed some of his hair to fall into his face. If he wanted to really play it up, he'd try to make himself blush, but for now that wasn't necessary. To the surprise of no one, Slughorn and the girls seemed to love the act.

 _Idiots_.

As he looked up again, Slughorn gave him a conspiratorial wink. "To answer your question, the exact nature of this potion is to cause powerful infatuation, or obsession. Unlike other magic that can alter a person's free will, this is unique in that it doesn't actually affect their will, only their motives. It doesn't force one to do anything, it causes a sickness that makes them  _want_ to, only making it all the more dangerous."

That made sense, actually. The Imperius Curse can be fought. Threats of death and torture can be ignored. A strong will can't be so easily broken. He recalled a conversation he had had with Hermione a few years ago.

" _Pain and suffering can drive someone mad, but if their will is still intact, you get no results. You'll get nothing out of it. It's more effective, not to mention less repulsive, to just convince them to tell you themselves."_

While he had always considered the idea of using love potions a distinct brand of repulsive, he had been thinking of them as magical date rape drugs. It had never occurred to him that they may have other uses.

Perhaps a trip to the library was in order.

"Now of course, these potions cannot manufacture true love, but the danger it possesses is near limitless nonetheless."

As Slughorn finished, he looked over expectantly.

"Thank you, Professor. That was very insightful."

* * *

Lunch, he decided, would be best spent in the library that afternoon. Some things were more important than food. After potions he had been feeling particularly eager to look into the subject more, thinking that maybe love potions could be altered to be a more effective form of mind control. While looking for his answer, he scanned through several sections.

First, the potions part of the restricted section, where he found a book dedicated to mind altering substances(most of which could be used recreationally, hence the book's placement in the restricted section). Next, the magical and muggle sections about brain science(or, in muggle terms, psychology). Lastly, and somewhat reluctantly, the history section.

History had never been his favorite subject, and it had little to do with Possessor Binn's droning voice and less than engaging teaching methods. It was just a boring subject, though, by his own standards, necessary. Taking the class ensured he wouldn't miss any important cultural references, and scanning through the books now allowed him to make sure Slughorn hadn't been exaggerating the damage caused by lovesick morons. If he could find credible examples of people throughout history doing remarkable acts in the name of love, he would know he wasn't following a dead end.

Throughout all history and literature, there were famous depictions of couples and romanticized tales about what they did in the name of love. Very rarely was what they did remarkable, and very often was it stupid.

Romeo and Juliet, for example, committed suicide so they could die together even if they couldn't live together. Why anyone would think  _that_ was a viable solution to their problem was a level of stupidity he was happy to say was beyond his comprehension.

Hermione had mentioned that she had thought about it, he remembered. Though based on the way she had said it, he wasn't sure if she had actually meant it or if it had been more of an expression. If it were an expression, a metaphor, it was a rather morbid choice.

Not that it mattered. For one thing, fate had given her to him for a reason. She couldn't just off herself to prevent that - the very idea was nearly unthinkable. Their meeting was inevitable, destined to be. For another thing, she hadn't actually done it even if she had thought about it. The thought itself was almost painfully idiotic, but he wouldn't fault her for  _not_ doing it(given the sheer number of thoughts that went through that woman's head daily, some of them were bound to be stupid). That alone made her better than the Shakespearean idiots that had become synonymous with romance.

He skimmed through, looking for anything noteworthy, when suddenly his eyes stopped on a single word in the page.

_Hermione_

Of course it would be her name, of all things, that he noticed. Nearly rolling his eyes at the cliche of it all, he read the context. Hermione, daughter of Helen of Troy. Helen went down in history as the most beautiful woman in the world. The story was famous, of course. A thousand ships launched in her name. A city destroyed.

Of course it would be her name, though it's place in the story was insignificant at best(it was her mother who the war was started over, after all, not her), that would lead him here.

Checking the face of his watch, he noted the time. He had divination starting in just under fifteen minutes. While he considered leaving the book behind(even just reading it made him feel ridiculous), he shoved it in his bag with the rest of them and headed off to class.


	11. I Need To Start Naming Chapters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the single longest chapter I have ever uploaded. If the longer chapters are overwhelming, I can shorten them.

Even though classes were done for the day, he didn't retreat to her office as immediately as he usually did. Patience had never been something that came easily to him, but in this case he knew it would be unwise to just run in and begin interrogating her. Instead, Tom took out his diary, read over everything he had written, and made sure that of  _everything_ he remembered, all of it was recorded. Every word, every tonal fluctuation, every minute detail down to the very shoes he remembered Hermione had been wearing was meticulously documented. Using a copying spell, he transferred all of it over to another bit of parchment and hid it in his school trunk as a backup, just in case.

To be fair, he didn't actually know the context of the conversation he had overheard and there was a slight possibility he was overreacting. He was still nearly positive that wasn't the case, if only because of how furious she sounded at the time.

After double checking and rehiding both the diary and the parchment, he decided he was ready to see her.

Her office wasn't locked. He was nearly positive that meant she was already there, waiting for him. One hand stayed in his pocket, keeping his wand firmly within his grasp.

She was, as usual, sitting across the couch in the armchair she always read in. Though she didn't appear to be reading now, in front of her on the coffee table was a book she could decide to pick up at any moment should she so desire. She looked almost too causal, like it was rehearsed or forced rather than a naturally relaxed state. The way she seemed to almost squirm in her chair as she looked up at him confirmed his suspicions.

She was nervous, he deduced, but trying very hard to appear not to be. If it were truly just a misunderstanding, that he had only overheard something innocent, she would have no valid reason for such anxiety.

Unless she thought he was going to kill her. He nearly rolled his eyes at the ridiculousness of that thought, but since she seemed to always think he was a mere millisecond away from slashing throats, it wouldn't shock him.

"You can put your wand away," she snapped, eyeing the hand he had kept in his pocket, and then back to his face with an incredulous expression. "I'm not going to hurt you. It's not like I would fancy destroying my office for a duel when a civil conversation would suffice."

Not  _hurt_  him, no, just Obliviate. Though, she had slapped him approximately twenty four hours ago. It's not like he had no reason to be cautious of her uncontrolled aggression. She could be quite temperamental.

Still, he let go of his wand and removed his hand from his pocket, leaving them both clearly visible as he sat down across from her. Despite her bossy tone, she was clearly feeling uncomfortable - she was pulling her sleeves down again.

"I'm not sure what you  _think_  you heard," She began, voice significantly less clipped now that his wand was put away.

"Enough to know it's something you'd prefer was a secret," he replied coolly, cutting her off. "Enough to know it involves me."

What she was doing was obvious, at least to him. It was an attempt to instill doubt in his own memories, his own recollections, and call his sanity into question, while leaving the actual context of what was said unapproached. Very Slytherin. Had it not been so annoying to have it used against himself, he would have appreciated the technique.

"And?" She inquired. "Is that all?"

He cocked his head expectantly, waiting for her to continue.

She scowled. "Well now you're just being deliberately vague."

Not incorrect, but he refused to budge by telling her anything. Instead, he merely arched a brow in response and waited.

It seemed she wasn't willing to play that way. "Fine then. Why don't  _you_ ask the questions instead."

Of all true possible responses she could have had, this was one of the least ideal because it meant that if he didn't ask the right questions, he wouldn't get the necessary answers. If that were really how she wanted to do this, it meant he'd have to be thorough. Not only that, he would have to be specific.

"What does Dumbledore have to do with me?" He asked, deciding that was the best place to start.

"You mean other than being your professor? Absolutely nothing."

Patience wearing thin already, he grit his teeth. " _Don't lie to me_."

"I'm not lying."

As he ran through what he needed to say to force her to talk, he suddenly remembered a conversation they had had several years before, about extracting information from uncooperative parties.

" _It's more effective to get them to tell you themselves."_

He knew he well enough to know that the intimidation that so easily herded sheep would not work on her. Fear was a natural state of being for her, though she cleverly concealed it with a demeanor of annoyance. No, making her scared would not work when she was already scared.

He needed to do the exact opposite. He needed to earn her trust, her sympathy.

Never had he truly appreciated her high capacity for affective empathy until now.

"You called me vulnerable," he said, watching her intently for any visual response.

She had also called him 'talented', and 'eager to prove himself', he remembered. But if he needed to target her empathy, he needed to highlight the vulnerability rather than anything that could be seen as threatening - even if he felt more than a little insulted that she would use such a pathetic word to describe him. That was more of a slap in the face than the actual slap she had given his face.

"That's because you are, Tom," she said gently, though somewhat cautiously. "And that's not calling you weak, or citing some personal failing. You're young. Not a child, fine, but young. Your lack of experience is a vulnerability."

For a moment, he was silent.

He did not lack experience. Actually, he was certain he had more experience than most "proper" adults. Despite his age, he had already mastered all the Unforgivable curses, and put them into practice. He had already begun experimenting with magical theory, on his way to stretching the limits of magic further than had ever been done.

But if she didn't know that, he would hardly think it would be useful  _now_ to tell her. Still, he couldn't bring himself to even pretend to agree with her.

Quieter, more gently and with a near pleading tone, he spoke again. "Please, Hermione. You mentioned me. You didn't deny this involves me. Don't I deserve to know?"

Her expression softened, and to pressure her further he held eye contact. It was enough to make her feel guilty, to force her to empathize, without overdoing it. As she leaned forward, shoulders slumping, and nodded, he knew it had worked.

 _Good girl_.

She sighed. "I'll tell you about how this all involves you, because you're right.  _No one_ deserves to have to be involved in something without knowing."

Though it was subtle, she just admitted to withholding information. Only agreeing to tell him how it involves him, not the whole picture. While he felt satisfaction at knowing that a guilt trip wouldn't completely work on her(he didn't want just anyone being able to utilize her empathy, that should be reserved only for himself), there was also something rather odd and somewhat disconcerting about the way she said that last bit, like she was talking about another person. It was bothersome firstly because she was wrong(sometimes you  _have_ to lead people into something completely blind, or else their survival instincts will kick in and they won't agree), but more because she really shouldn't be thinking about anyone but him. Especially not now.

For the time being, he ignored the strangely gnawing feeling and urged her to keep talking with a respectful, reassuring nod.

She was fiddling with her sleeves again.

"Dumbledore is working to take down Grindelwald. Maybe you've heard about it - the Ministry hasn't been shy about the fact that they're less than pleased with him because of it. And it  _shouldn't_ involve you, or anyone else at all really, but sometimes it does."

Biting her lip, she looked up at him with big, nervous looking doe eyes. Trying to tell if he followed her train of thought, most likely. Leaning forward, he rested his head on his hand and continued watching her, a silent affirmation.

She sighed, but continued. "I really can't say this without making it sound horrible, so I'm not going to try: Dumbledore has a habit of recruiting former students to help him with these political causes, often sending them on what many people would call suicide missions. He finds gifted, vulnerable people willing to break the rules if need be, and he influences them to do what he can't …or isn't willing to, depending on who you ask. Yes, the Ministry knows. The Daily Bloody Prophet has even written about it before. It's not any big secret, even if it is a taboo subject here at Hogwarts. It's not even illegal, for that matter."

Her hand reached up and began running her fingers through the roots of her hair, gently pulling against her scalp. An irritated, exasperated gesture. "He's not a bad person, okay? He means well. I just can't support it. I don't want him recruiting any more students, especially not current students. When you told me about how he approved of you healing that kid, it worried me. Because that's exactly the type of thing he looks for. People willing to break and bend rules," she paused, suddenly looking like she had swallowed something very bitter, before finishing, " _for the greater good_."

He suddenly understood the bitter expression. 'For the greater good' was Grindelwald's motto, and he could only imagine how much she hated saying those words. Grindelwald actually didn't have any policies against muggle-born magical people, but on principal most of them hated him. The few that didn't were often abused or abandoned, with some sort of personal experience to fuel their rabid anti muggle beliefs.

Now that he had processed what she had said, he could hardly say he was surprised. The idea of Dumbledore, everyone's favorite, foolish, old hypocrite, fancying himself a General was not at all surprising. Still, her assessment that he 'wasn't a bad person' was useless. Desire for glory aside, Tom had no intention of getting himself killed for a game of political chess. No, even if Dumbledore had 'recruited' him, he would tell him exactly where he could shove that offer.

Well, perhaps he'd be a bit more polite about it. Needlessly antagonizing him would just be unwise.

He redirected his attention back to the task at hand, to the witch in front of him. "How do you know all this?"

She flinched. So quickly it was more of a twitch, really, but he was sure he saw it. "That doesn't involve you."

"You said Dumbledore was your professor," he said, not expecting a verbal response but making note of her body language. Her hand just barely inched towards her wand. Something about that statement made her defensive, he was certain.

When he looked back to her face, her expression had hardened again. "You also just said he has a habit of recruiting former students to help him with dangerous -life threatening, even- missions." This time, there was no visible change in her demeanor. "Is that what he did to you?"

She clenched her jaw. She didn't say it, but the meaning became very clear to him.

 _Yes_.

"That's none of your business," she said instead, tone threateningly cold, yet polite. A warning, telling him to back off.

Unfortunately for her, he had no intentions to do any such thing. She was more intriguing to him now than she ever had been before - which was quite significant, given she had been the victim of his steadily growing fixation for years now.

Dumbledore recruited former students, seeming to not care about what happened to them or the danger he put them in. She used to be his student.

That made sense, except that she hadn't gone to Hogwarts. By all records, she had been homeschooled. He had never heard of Dumbledore doing private tutoring, but if using children as soldiers was something he did on a regular basis, it would make sense to start with muggleborns, a group of magical people naturally assumed to be weak and who had been kept away from the eye of the Ministry.

(He did have to admit that would be a brilliant way to form an army, even if he was somewhat peeved that Dumbledore had thought of it before he himself had.)

Just what he had her do was the real question.

She had said she had been tortured. He never doubted, even for a second, that she had been telling the truth. He knew she was. That scar on her arm was proof enough that she had seen some of the worst horrors humanity was capable of.

Now he had a culprit. A guilty party. Someone he could punish for what had happened to her. She had said that the person who had done it was dead, but if the entire situation was Dumbledore's fault he should still pay for it.

Something about the thought made him furious in a way he had never experienced before. When he used to think about it(and he had, often), there was always a level of detachment and disconnect that allowed him to mentally keep his composure. It was different now that he had a specific person to blame for it all, rather than a million theoreticals.

Faster than even he had been anticipating, he moved forward and caught her wrist within his grip, using his other hand to push her sleeve up. She attempted to pull herself back into her chair, away from him, but he held his grasp. As he saw her other hand begin to move towards her wand, he grabbed that wrist too and admired the mark he had left there the night before.

Allowing himself only a moment, he looked over the varying shades of green and yellow bruising of her wrists. If the bruises were that light, beginning to heal already, he must have been more gentle than he realized. That, or she might simply be less fragile than he assumed. Either way, it meant he could play with her without as much worrying about breaking her.

Glancing down at her arm, at the now fully revealed scar, he felt an impulse to touch it again. That impulse he controlled, because it would involve letting go of at least one of her wrists and he didn't trust her to have control of her hands right now -not if she was going to do something to try and push him away. Judging by the way he felt her pulse race under her skin, he assumed that was unfortunately the case.

When he looked up and saw her face, an expression holding bits of both shock, annoyance(irritation seemed to be a perpetual state of being for her), and confusion, met his gaze. "Hermione," he said, doing what he could to keep his voice compelling and yet nonthreatening, "tell me the truth. Did he do this to you?"

" _Why_ are you always grabbing me? Need I remind you that I am not a rag doll?"

"Friends do typically touch each other, you know," he replied patiently, ignoring both the heavy accusation in her tone and the rhetorical question. "Not everyone is as averse to human contact as yourself. Answer the question, Hermione."

"Hugs and handshakes, Tom. Not assault."

He scoffed, growing more irritated by the second at her refusal to cooperate. "This is not assault."

"You're hurting me."

"No. If I wanted you hurt, you'd be hurt." Still, he loosened his grip enough that he saw her exhale, then began gently rubbing what could be interpreted as apologetic circles into the skin of her wrists.

Watching her, he noticed the curious way her eyes followed the movement of his thumbs. "I don't want you hurt." He noted with no small amount of satisfaction the way her eyes lingered on his lips before flickering back to meet his gaze.

She may be nervous, apprehensive, but not genuinely scared.

Now that she seemed to have relaxed a bit, he very slowly released one wrist and used his now free hand to run his fingers along the scar tissue, starting with the letter 'M'. She didn't flinch when he touched it this time, and he mentally cataloged that consistent reassurance of her safety was necessary to keep her calm.

"Hermione, answer the question."

"Dumbledore did not do this to me," she stated clearly, eyes not wavering from his own. "And you know that. I've already told you that the person who did is dead."

She moved to pull her arm away, but he just gripped it tighter as he pulled it back and shot her a glare. In return, she rolled her eyes in an exaggerated expression, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, " _touch starved orphan_ ," under her breath(he decided to pointedly ignore that), but conceded in allowing him to keep holding onto her limb.

As long as he could remember, he had preferred to fidget while he was thinking - though he had gotten better with controlling the impulses as he aged, some of the time it couldn't be helped. Boredom and restlessness may as well have been torture. As a child, he would use whatever random objects were available to him, sometimes settling for only the strings he could pull from his worn clothes. After starting Hogwarts, he would idly twirl his wand through his fingers. More recently, he found he much preferred using her when she was available. Wrapping a lock of her hair around his fingers or tracing along her scars was a much more entertaining way to redirect excessive energy.

"Do I?" He asked, returning his attention to her face. "Know, that is. Because what I  _know_ is that he used to be your professor, he apparently has no objection to using former students as disposable pawns, and that you have been gravely injured on a number of occasions and tortured at least once. I know you said the person who did it is dead, but for all I know he may have been the one to put you in that situation in the first place, thus making him a guilty party."

Her jaw had clenched and she began to very gently pull back away from him, as though suddenly distrustful. To rectify the situation, he reluctantly allowed her to pull away - it seemed they were finally getting somewhere and there was no sense in ruining it by making her feel like a trapped animal.

"Hermione," he said, gently, coaxing her back to him, "you can't hide information from me and expect me not to draw conclusions or fill in the gaps. I need you to trust me."

"Then I need  _you_ to trust  _me_ ," she argued, "and believe me when I say he didn't do it."

With that, unstoppable force met immovable object. Any continuation of that point would result in a cyclic argument.

He was still determined not to let this be the end of it. "Then tell me who did. Trust me with that information, and I'll trust you by believing it."

Eyeing him warily, she seemed to understand what he was doing and weighed the pros and cons of participating. "I'll tell you how it happened, no names."

That was fine. Given context, he could look for names. It would be much harder to do it the other way around.

He nodded.

She crossed her legs and pulled them closer to where she sat in her chair, as though subconsciously folding in on herself. "When I was eighteen, some friends and I were camping. Someone had thought we had stolen from them, and -maybe because I'm muggle-born, maybe because I was just a girl, I don't know why exactly- she decided to interrogate me for information."

"What did you take?" He asked, noting her use of the word 'she'. Obviously, Hermione wasn't going to just delve into the details, but if this was an exercise in trust, he planned to see exactly how far that trust would get him.

"Nothing. We hadn't taken anything from her."

He didn't hide his skepticism.

"...Not until after I'd already been punished for it," she amended, sensing his disbelief. "But at the time, nothing."

He nearly snorted. Of course that's the answer he'd get from a spiteful little thing like her.

"So, what was it then?"

"A replica of the Sword of Gryffindor."

"She was that bothered over a  _replica_? Not even the real thing?"

"She thought it  _was_ the real thing."

So she was stupid. Fair enough.

"Tell me more about it," he requested, mentally tallying these little details, storing them away for future use.

"What are you asking for, a metaphor? I didn't think I'd have to explain to you that torture hurts. The Cruciatus Curse is not exactly comparable to a massage."

Unappreciative of her sarcasm, he shook his head. "Why did she think you stole it? How did you convince her otherwise? Where was Dumbledore during all of this, since you said it wasn't his fault."

"Someone else stole it, I lied until she believed me, and I don't keep track of what Dumbledore is doing at any given moment, nor does he track me. Is that better? Are you satisfied now?"

_No._

"Yes."

He knew better than to push her too far. Making her hate or fear him would only be counterproductive. He'd have to be patient. In the past, having patience with her and respecting her feelings had paid off. She may not be willing to tell him everything now, but he was certain she'd be open to it later.

"So what happens now?"

"What happens now is that you keep everything I told you to yourself, Dumbledore takes off his rose tinted spectacles and leaves you out of his plotting, and none of us ever speak of this again."

He scoffed. "You really think that's how this is going to play out?"

She made an indignant little huff before retorting, "I'm optimistic."

"Yeah, and where is all that optimism going to get you when things don't go according to plan? Be realistic. We need a plan for when things start going wrong."

" _If_ ," she stressed, "not when. I find it highly unlikely anything will actually come of this. There's really nowhere to go from here. Since his involvement against Grindelwald isn't exactly a secret, it's not like you can blackmail him. And I'm assuming you overheard him when he insisted he had no plans to involve you in anything."

"And what if he was lying?"

She cast him a glare, as though  _he_ were the one being unreasonable here, before her expression suddenly morphed into a smirk and she got up. Crossing the room, she began to rummage through her desk before she returned back to him and placed a shining golden Galleon in his hand.

* * *

During rounds, he kept the coin in his hand, idly flipping it through his fingers.

He had to hand it to her, it was a brilliant little invention.

" _What, are you trying to bribe me into silence now? I'm afraid I'm worth a bit more than just a Galleon, love."_

" _These," she said, holding an identical coin between her own fingers, "may be fake Galleons, but they're real concealed communication devices."_

Truly brilliant. Should they be searched, no one would find anything odd about a person having a coin on them. She went on to explain that while initially only the numbers on the coin changed(a fake serial number was an easy way to communicate a numerical message), she later expanded on the idea so that text would appear on the surface as well, though it could only be revealed with a specific incantation and a simple wand tap would banish it immediately.

In his personal opinion, " _Potterwatch"_ had been an odd choice for a revealing incantation, but she hardly seemed inclined to justify her reasoning.

" _So, if I need to find you or speak to you, I just hold onto my coin and whatever I decide appears on the face of yours?"_

" _That is the general idea, yes. Though I'd prefer if you only used it for emergencies."_

" _I'll keep that in mind. And so you're notified, fine, but then what?"_

_She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Then you let me deal with it because I'm the adult here."_

" _I'm an adult," he argued, doing his best not to grit his teeth._

" _You're seventeen."_

" _Legally an adult. In December, I'll be an adult even by muggle standards. And you'll only be twenty four on the nineteenth. You're not that much older than me. Regardless, age isn't even a proper indicator of experience. Should a problem arise, you can't expect to deal with it on your own, Hermione. Not if it involves me. Not if it involves you."_

And again, that was the problem.

From the very first moment he had met her, she had wormed her way into his life, existing as a constant presence, following him like a shadow.

But every bit of presence he had won in her life had to be fought tooth and nail for, every piece of information he knew of her life had to be  _earned_. It took patience and consideration and a surprising amount of kindness to get even the most basic reciprocation of trust from her. If she had been anyone else, he would have argued it wasn't worth the effort.

There had to be an easier way, he was certain of it. He may have been closer to her than anyone else(she was, after all, painfully isolated), but he still wasn't close enough.

Surely there was just something he was missing, something he  _needed_ to find, and then it would all make sense. Some tidbit of information he hadn't yet found. But he was nothing if not determined, if not resourceful. Whatever it was, he knew he would uncover it eventually.

As he rounded the seventh floor corridor, again, he suddenly saw a door. Eyeing it with caution, he was certain he hadn't seen it before.

Actually, wasn't there supposed to be a tapestry here? The one with the dancing trolls on it, if he was remembering correctly. And he probably was, because throughout the last few years of his Prefect rounds, he had taken to checking behind each tapestry, cementing to memory which held hidden hallways or alcoves.

Deciding that his curiosity overwhelmed any suspicion he had of the mysterious door, he approached it, placed his hand on the doorknob, and turned. With a single push, the door opened easily, allowing him inside.

Though he hadn't actually thought about what he  _did_ expect the door to reveal, what he found was certainly not anything he would have anticipated.

The room was large, much larger than any of the abandoned classrooms or hidden study rooms he had found before, but smaller than the Great Hall. And all throughout it were various devices used to keep track of time. From the walls hung clocks and calendars, covering shelves were dozens and dozens of hourglasses and pocket watches.

But the strangest thing was that all of them were moving on an odd, almost broken looking cycle, like someone had messed up the charms placed over them, given up, and left. The hands of the clocks would turn and tick, a full rotation clockwise, and then chime before turning back. The calendars flipped open, starting from the beginning and flipping page by page until the end, only to turn back and repeat it again. The sand of the hourglasses dripped down, emptying into one side completely, before the individual grains began to levitate back upwards.

It did not flip, no, it  _reversed_.

* * *

"This had better not be another one of those times where you drag me away in the middle of the night to show me something terrifying," Hermione griped as he pulled her along by her wrist, dragging her towards the strange door he had found.

"Don't be so dramatic," he chided her, "you certainly seemed to enjoy yourself last time."

"After I was convinced you weren't about to murder me, sure."

He rolled his eyes. "How many times do I have to tell you I'm not going to murder you? I want you alive, uninjured, and preferably content. Is that clear enough for you?"

She muttered something under her breath that he didn't quite catch, but didn't argue further.

His first instinct upon leaving the mysterious room was to find Hermione and bring her back to it. She had been in the castle for less time than he had, having arrived during his second year, and yet she still seemed to know everything there was to know about it. There was no need for him to pick up  _Hogwarts: A History_  when he had Hermione Jean Granger ready and willing to tell him everything he needed(and more) anyways.

If anyone would know what the room was, it would be her.

So he dragged her behind him as he paced through the halls, her smaller legs keeping up with his strides surprisingly well.

When he reached the corridor with the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and the dancing trolls, he stopped. The door was gone, once again replaced by that hideous tapestry. Flipping it to the side, he saw nothing but stone wall behind it. He ran his fingers over it; It was solid, definitely real.

"Where did it go? It was just here. Right before I came and got you. I know it was right here…" He trailed off, wondering how the hell an entire room could just disappear within the castle, when the sound of laughter pulled his attention back.

Hermione was grinning at him like this were all some huge joke only she understood. "You found the Room of Requirement, Tom."

"The what?"

Her laughter ceased, but her uncharacteristically playful smile remained. "The Room of Requirement. It appears to supply whatever is needed of it." At his look of confusion, she continued. "Here, look."

She paced back and forth in front of the door, once, twice, thrice, repeating, "I need a comfortable sitting room."

Suddenly, a door, the same door as before, appeared. With a gentle nudge to his arm and an expectant look, she urged him to open it.

The room no longer contained clocks or calendars, but simply two plush chairs, a coffee table, a fireplace on one wall, and a piano on the other. It had also shrunk in size to accommodate the lesser amount of furnishings.

"See?" She said. "There are limitations, of course. It only works for the current occupants of the room, meaning outsiders can't get in if it's already in use and specified to be private. The space can change in size, but it's not infinite. It can't do anything impossible, either, though that should be a given."

He glanced around the room, slowly taking note of each bit of furniture. It was all real, solid, and well put together. Impeccably cast transfiguation.

"Can I test it?" He asked.

Hermione looked up from where she wandered over to play a soft tune on the conjured piano and nodded. "Let's just go back out and you can try it yourself."

They stood in front of the door, watching as it blended back into the wall and the tapestry formed once again.

Incredible.

Just as she had, he began to pace back and forth in front of it. The real question now was what did he want to summon? She did say it had limits, and he suddenly wanted to see just how far he could stretch them. A replica of The Chamber of Secrets? A private library?

When he had accidentally summoned it the first time, he was certain he hadn't asked for a room of clocks. But then again, Hermione had asked for something fairly specific and it had worked. What would happen if he again gave it a rather vague command? How would it interpret it?

_I need a place to take Hermione, I need a place to take Hermione, I need a place to take Hermione_

A place could be just about anything. He was curious to see what it would make of that request - if it would suit it to his own needs, or perhaps  _hers_ , or if it would have a generic idea of 'place' in mind, maybe being an empty room. When the door appeared, he wasted no time in pushing it open.

He was not at all disappointed. Despite having left his instructions for the room almost painfully indescriptive, it seemed to have clearly understood exactly the type of thing he had had in mind.

 _I need a place to take Hermione_  - 'a place' in this instance had taken the form of a large, luxurious looking room. Bookcases with full shelves were scattered liberally throughout the room, with at least one placed next to every piece of sitting furniture. A large four poster bed was placed in the center of the west wall, along with a nightstand on each side. Across the room, opposite the bed, sat a fireplace, writing desk, two sitting chairs(the same ones, he noticed, that had been conjured before), and the same piano, now placed against the other wall.

But what had really impressed him was that despite never having thought the words exactly, the room had perfectly understood his vision of what he would consider an ideal place to keep her. Connected to the floor in the center of the room was a long iron chain, complete with a clasp clearly designed to fit around an ankle. It was long enough to stretch across the length of the room, allowing the prisoner(Hermione) mobility, but short enough that they( _Hermione_ ), would not be able to escape unless he allowed it.

Other pieces of furniture shared this additional detail as well, he noticed. On each of the four posts of the bed was a similar iron clasp, as well as the arms and front legs of the desk chair. The chairs borrowed from the former sitting room did not, but he supposed he may need a place to sit too, and he would rather not have the restraints getting in his way or poking him. That would be inconvenient, not to mention needlessly uncomfortable.

"What on earth did you ask it for?" He looked back to the room's intended prisoner, who was currently glancing throughout it with a look of confusion, but noted a distinct lack of fear.

Maybe she really wouldn't mind being locked up.

Ignoring her question, he paced over to the middle of the room and picked up the chain, grabbing it by the clasp. As the metal scraped against the stone floor, it made a soft clanking noise he was certain he only found delightful because of the context.

"It's not very practical, you know. To use the room this way. It won't work."

At some point, Hermione had come up to stand right beside him, amber eyes watching in morbid fascination as his fingers flitted with the chain. "And whyever not?" Nothing seemed to be out of order to his eyes.

"Watch." She pulled the clasp of the chain from his hand, unlocked it, and wrapped it around her wrist.

 _Ankle_ , he mentally corrected,  _it's meant to be for your ankle_ , but he liked the visual nonetheless, so he watched silently, reveling in the sound it made when it finally clicked shut, locking her in. He swallowed.

"Go ahead and test it, then." She held her arm out, allowing him to check to security of the clasp. Eagerly, he did. It was loose enough that it would not chafe or hurt her, not unless she pulled on it, but tight enough that it could drift no further than her wrist, securing her in place. She smirked as he pulled against it, fingers lingering on the places where the metal pressed against her skin.

"Now all I have to do is think 'I need a way to get out of these bonds' and," she paused, her eyes widening theatrically, "oh, would you look at that!" Suddenly, the previously locked and secure clasp unlocked and fell from her wrist to the floor in a noisy heap.

The previous elation he felt at having discovered the room very quickly deflated, her expression taking on a look of supreme smugness.

"It answers to every occupant of the room," she said, amusement at his shocked frustration very poorly concealed. "It'd be unwise to attempt to use it as any sort of prison or interrogation chamber. Anyone you bring in here has as much power to change the surroundings as yourself."

What good was it, then? It was probably good for a lot of things, he knew, but at the moment none of them sounded particularly interesting or useful due to his newfound bitterness. Still, he knew he'd later change his mind. The magic contained in this space  _was_ incredible, even if it was limited and he would have to find somewhere else to keep Hermione if he really wanted to go that route. The thought was pleasant, but keeping her in constant restraints would be a waste of her potential.

Logistically, it wouldn't do to keep her locked away in the castle when he wasn't there anyways. It would be impractical. She either needed to be somewhere he could access her at any time, personally ensuring her safety, or leave her able to defend herself. She'd be useless to him dead or inaccessible.

It had been a lovely idea while it lasted, though.

"How did you even find this place anyways?" She asked, interrupting him from his musings.

"I'm …not entirely sure, actually. I'm certain I did not ask for what it showed me."

She frowned. "Are you, though? It does whatever is asked of it within its limits. If you asked for something it couldn't just give you, it still tries to be of assistance in any way possible. For example, it can't conjure food, but it can conjure a passage straight to the kitchen. What did it show you?"

"Clocks," he answered immediately. "Dozens of them."

"And I don't suppose you had been thinking about checking the time?"

"No."

Taking a few steps back, she cast a puzzled glance in the direction of the door. "That's …odd. It doesn't just create things with no reason, you must have told it  _something_. You found it on accident, right? Maybe you just don't remember thinking that you needed something. What were you thinking about?"

He pursed his lips and furrowed his brows, because what  _had_ he been thinking about? Prefect rounds weren't known for being mentally stimulating, and he usually just let his mind wander. Whatever he had been thinking about had surely been forgotten as soon as he noticed the door. And as soon as he found the room, he had immediately thought to go and find Hermione, to see if she knew what it was and-

Hermione.

Now, he remembered. That's what he had been thinking about. He had been wondering about her past, trying to decipher what it would take to earn her trust.

"The room wasn't just full of clocks," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets to appear nonchalant. Suddenly, he felt almost giddy with anticipation but knew better than to let it show. "There were calendars too, and hourglasses. And they were all broken, kept flipping forwards and back. Does that mean anything to you?"

Knowing he was onto something, he watched her sharply, looking for any indication of a response. Almost imperceptibly, she flinched, hand just slightly twitching to pull her wand from her sleeve in what he knew to be an obviously defensive gesture. To restrain herself, she fisted her hands into the fabric of her robe instead. "Why would that mean anything to me? It sounds like nonsense."

That wasn't a blatant denial, but a shift in focus, diverting the attention away from herself and back to him.

If it told him anything, it was that she knew exactly what he implied, understood it in a way he did not, and that she was hiding it from him.

* * *

Since Hermione clearly had no desire to be cooperative and simply spill all her secrets, it meant he had to do a bit more research on his own. Intellectually, he appreciated the challenge(Hogwarts curriculum was designed for people slower than himself, and sometimes he did get bored waiting for everyone else to catch up), but it was also immensely frustrating.

Over the following week, he ended up making half a dozen trips to the library, attempting to find anything he could that would help him decipher the "hint" the room had given him. That's what he had taken to calling it now, a hint. As Hermione had explained it, if the room couldn't give you  _exactly_  what you had asked for due to limitations within magic(most notably Gamp's Law), it would give you what you needed to get it yourself.

He was certain there was a reason for what it showed him, he just wasn't sure what yet.

Stealing a page from Hermione's book, he scoured the library for anything he could possibly find related to the room. Unfortunately, exposing himself to that many subjects at once led him to get sidetracked. It was hardly his fault there were so many interesting things to learn about, but he left the library for the seventh time that week with his bookbag so stuffed that the undetectable extension charm he put on it was beginning to protest.

As he entered the Head's common room, he was met with the painfully shrill sound of girlish squealing and laughter, followed by equally annoying soft cooing noises. Resisting the urge to grimace or cover his ears, he found it almost made him miss the Slytherin dormitories.

Boys were irritating, no doubt, but girls were intolerable.

Though he tried to slip into his room as quickly as possible, avoiding any interaction with the group of giggling females, the Head Girl called out to him before he was able to escape undetected.

"Tom, you never told me you had a cat!"

When he turned to see what in Merlin's name she was going on about, he was greeted with the sight of a certain familiar orange monstrosity, who had suddenly began squirming in an attempt to get to him.

"I don't," he replied quickly.

One of the girls behind Fawley spoke up then. "Well, she was waiting in front of  _your_ door."

 _Hardly my problem_ , he nearly replied, but he held his tongue. "She's actually Professor Granger's, she just follows me sometimes."

Fawley suddenly let out a hiss of pain as the increasingly impatient cat began to use its claws to push her away, letting out desperate little crying noises as it struggled out of her hold. "Tom, can you…?"

"Sorry." Avoiding bloodshed, he stepped forward and took the cat. It immediately curled up against his chest, tucking its head underneath his chin and purring far more than he thought was necessary to express gratitude. "She's clingy."

"I can see that," Fawley replied, not looking up as she eyed a scratch the cat had inflicted against her forearm. "She's Granger's then? You two are close, right? Granger, that is. Not the cat. I can already see  _that one_ likes you."

"Pardon?"

"You do your studying in her office and sometimes you help her set up for class. Don't worry - I'm not making fun of you, I actually think it's really sweet."

He frowned. "I've never really thought about it before," he lied, pretending to seem thoughtful about it. "Defense has always been my favorite subject. Perhaps I spent more time than I realized asking her about it."

Fawley rolled her eyes. "Well, she certainly doesn't seem to mind."

He tried not to glare at her, finding that he did not care for this conversation at all. While he knew he could hardly claim that his closeness with Hermione was a secret, he didn't want nosy teenage girls speculating about why. That was both private and beyond their comprehension. As far as anyone should be concerned, their relationship was strictly academic.

Politely excusing himself, he took both his bookbag and the cat back with him to his dorm. As soon as he got through his bedroom door, he shut it and pulled the cat off his shoulders. Holding it out in front of him, he gave it a stern glare that it seemed to completely ignore. "I hate you."

Having known this pathetic animal for years now, he no longer felt the need to justify why he was talking to it. Its paws flexed out in front of it, only increasing the incessant purring noise.

"This isn't going to work, you know. Weaponizing pity may have worked on your mum and all those silly little girls, but I don't care how cute and helpless you look. I have no sympathy for you."

Promptly dropping it the ground, he began walking over to his bed, doing his best to pointedly ignore the way the cat chased after him, curling around his feet and mewing. As he dropped his books onto the bed, the cat jumped up with him.

He didn't have a problem with studying with a cat next to him(over the years he had actually done it quite regularly, seeing as the beast had given him no other choice), but he usually did it in Hermione's office, where it would only be destroying her stuff if it got bored or restless. Not that it ever did(that he saw, anyways), but it was a cat. They have claws they use to shred things. That's within their nature, can't be helped. He'd rather not have it be his things the little monster decided to shred, though.

The only alternatives he could think of were either dropping it from his window, or opening the door and shoving it out, thus risking exposing himself to the Head Girl and the shrieking banshees that followed her.

He turned back to the cat, which had begun unceremoniously kneading his pillow and looking far too pleased with itself as it stared back at him. For a moment, he irrationally wondered if it followed his train of thought. Deciding that was ridiculous, he instead came to the conclusion that it was just an abnormally condescending animal.

Still, he settled on letting it stay for now. "If you scratch anything, I will dispose of you any way I see fit. Onlookers be damned."

It meowed, a noise he took as a confirmation of agreement.

 _Settled, then_ , he thought as he began opening one of the books.

When he had first gone to the library to look for information, he started with books about the history of Hogwarts in an attempt to learn more about the room, specifically its previous uses or the charms used in its creation, to see if he could find additional context for what it had been trying to tell him. That was a dead end.

Well,  _mostly_.

In all the books he found that mentioned the room(all, in this case, meant a grand total of four), most mentioned it as being a myth, not unlike the Chamber of Secrets(yes, he saw the irony there). A room created by the Hogwarts founders, crafted with powerful but lost magic, that had not been found and existed more in legend than in any practicality.

The magic used to create the room had been described in text as "lost". More likely, Tom knew, was that it had just never been recorded. But there was some speculation that it had the same legilimency charms built into it as the Hogwarts sorting hat.

 _That_ was what got him where he was now: studying legilimency. In theory, anyways.

While he had first learned about legilimency in his third year, he had decided to put off learning about it until he was out of school. Not because he wasn't interested(quite the contrary - the ability to view and control the minds of others was something very appealing to him), but because Hogwarts didn't teach it and learning it all on his own in his current situation was impractical.

While occlumency could be mastered fairly quickly(comparatively speaking), truly mastering legilimency could take decades. Learning to delve into the mind of another was one thing, but to learn to sift through it, to understand it, and then  _control_  it was an entirely different skill set.

In the beginning, before one has learned to do it without a wand, finding people to practice on would be difficult. Most people learn from a master, and the master offers themselves as a volunteer to be the "victim". While he had no doubt he could learn to cast the spell on his own, he sincerely doubted he'd be able to find willing volunteers(his friends valued their privacy far too much to be willing to give him free reign in their minds). Sure, he could theoretically force others, but it'd be unwise to do so if he didn't want to tarnish his reputation among his peers, or worse, be expelled. Intentionally entering someone's mind without their permission was considered a serious magical assault, and he could not just walk around shoving his wand in people's faces. Not to mention, legilimency could be detected, felt, within the victim.

For now, he had to be subtle about it. He needed stealth.

But he also knew that getting into Hermione's head was exactly what he needed to figure out everything she was hiding.

It was definitely a dilemma.

Letting out a sigh, he turned and looked back at the cat. As he reached out to scratch its ears, it looked up at him with a sleepy, content expression.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to him.

Eye contact was what it took to maintain legilimency, and  _right in front of him_ was a living, thinking being who couldn't protest to having its stupid little feline head rummaged through.

He wasn't even sure if it would work on an animal, but really, what was the harm in trying? Worst case scenario it goes crazy, and even then Hermione might not notice. It was already a rather unstable little being.

Grabbing his wand, he held it to the cat when suddenly he hesitated. Everything he had read had said that legilimency can be "as painful as a dark curse" or "as gentle as a lover's caress" depending on the way the spell was cast. While he didn't want to hurt the creature, he wasn't completely opposed to it either(like the muggle saying went - to make an omelette you need to crack eggs).

But the idea of lovingly caressing it, well  _that_ was crossing a line. That's just bloody disgusting.

Removing his wand from the cat with a shudder, he opened back up to the section that mentioned the sensations associated with experiencing legilimency, and thoroughly reread the line that specified the way a caster's emotions fueled the sensory experience of the victim.

Satisfied that he could keep it within his control, he shut the book again and turned back to the cat. In the few moments it had taken him to ready himself, it had curled up into his pillow, having decided to go to sleep.

He nudged it. "Wake up."

Rather than open its eyes, it simply gave him a dissatisfied noise and rolled onto its back.

While he could use an Imperius, he settled for a rejuvenating spell, taking advantage of the moment its eyes snapped open to cast, " _Legilimens_ ," swiftly diving into its mind.

The first thing he found were memories of hunting, both throughout the castle and over the grounds. The vicious little beast seemed all too content to kill anything it could sink its teeth or claws into, having made victims of mice and rats, but also rabbits, toads, and snakes.

Part of the reason he really would have preferred having a teacher for this was that, since this was his first attempt, he had very little control over what he saw. While he did his best to nudge it into certain directions, he had little knowledge of what he was doing. Like other aspects of magic, reading wasn't enough. It would have been helpful to have someone there to guide him, but as usual, he made due.

When he saw a certain memory, one that interested him, he did his best to hold onto it.

_The cat had crawled into the bookshelves of her office, and proceeded in knocking over three books in an attempt to get the hidden door to open. When it finally knocked over an old, battered copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, the bookshelf began to move and the cat jumped down, satisfied with what it had accomplished._

So  _that_ was the book she had chosen to open her door? A worn copy of a collection of bedtime stories? It almost made sense - certainly no one else would have a reason to grab it.

In the dumb, boring little brain of a cat, there was little of interest to him. But this was not just any cat, this was Hermione's cat. It had access to her much of the time when he did not, and would get to see her when she was alone, without anything to hide or any mask to wear. He saw her in its memories, fleeting and chaotic as his view of them was. Its feelings towards her were clear: utter adoration.

(Mentally, he noted to check if he could use the cat as a spy, if nothing else.)

Suddenly feeling his head begin to ache, he pulled out of the cat's mind.

He took several deep breaths. Why was everything in the wizarding world so needlessly uncomfortable? Apparating, broomsticks, chocolate frogs that crawled up your throat if you let them - Did everything magical have to be accompanied by unpleasant sensations? Surely not.

Hopefully legilimency was another one of those things that just needed to be gotten used to.

He could ask Hermione about it. Legilimency(theoretical, not practical knowledge) was part of the seventh year curriculum. She'd have to know.

Even better, he could ask her to teach him.

She was by far the best teacher he had ever had, though he was certain he could learn anything if he put his mind to it. But if she allowed him to enter her mind, to practice on her, he would have the perfect opportunity to go looking for the things she kept hidden. She'd know occlumency, of course, but with enough practice he might be able to break through whatever mental walls she had built.

He'd ask her about it tomorrow, he decided.

* * *

"No."

"Pardon?"

"I said, 'no'."

He tried not to glare at her. When he had proposed the idea, he hadn't expected her to refuse. It was  _mostly_ innocent, after all. Legilimency wasn't inherently dark magic. "Why not?"

He was lounged across her office couch, while she was sitting over at her desk. Though he would have preferred her to be sitting with him, with the first week of school over he understood that she did have papers to grade.

"Because," she replied with a haughty, know-it-all type of tone that just  _irked_ him, "I don't even know enough about legilimency to be a competent teacher. I'm by no means a master. I know enough to teach the standard curriculum for NEWTs courses, but it's not like I make a habit of digging through people's skulls."

He sneered. "Unless you're obliviating them, right?"

From the corner of his eye, he saw her head snap up as the room went quiet. The sound of her quill dropping from her hand was almost deafening in the sudden eerie silence. He began to wonder if perhaps he had gone too far with that remark. When he heard her chair scrape across the floor, and then the sound of footsteps, he was certain he had.

He had no idea what was coming next, no idea what to expect from her, and he wasn't sure if that was bothersome, exciting, or even arousing. All he knew was that he could suddenly hear his pulse in his ears, and felt like every limb was getting ready to spring into action.

As she came to sit across from him, he couldn't help but recall how similar this was to the way he felt before dueling, despite the obviously differing circumstances. She sat on the opposite end of the couch, but had tilted her body to be facing him almost directly, giving him her full attention. Her hands rested casually in front of her, and she didn't  _look_ like she was about to try and snap his neck(not that she could -not easily- though the situation would be best avoided altogether), but the way her amber eyes seemed to almost be sparking made him think it would be unwise to completely dismiss the possibility.

The left corner of her lips twitched, and he subtly moved his hand closer to his wand. Just in case.

"You know, I understand what you're doing. Trying to rile me up, and get a reaction. I know you're not used to being told 'no'. I'm sure it makes you angry."

Her eyes didn't leave his own for even half a second as she spoke. She cocked her head just slightly, suddenly looking almost amused, like a cat watching a mouse it had pinned by its tail. "Are you trying to punish me?"

That expression on her face was out of place. He was not the prey here. Never mind that what she had said so far was true.

"I'm merely trying to convince you to see the fallacy in your own argument," he replied, because he absolutely was trying to punish her for refusing him, but outright saying so sounded rather juvenile.

"Oh, are you expecting me to say 'thank you'? I know I can't tell you not to provoke me any more than I can tell you to stop breaking into my office. That's to say, I  _can_ , but it would be a pointless endeavor. An utter waste of breath."

There was no denying that was true as well. He was probably never going to stop breaking into her office, or stop trying to provoke her. Being told he shouldn't simply wouldn't hold any weight. It was too exciting, too much fun. There were lines drawn, of course. He wasn't stupid. Just as he wouldn't break her trust by stealing from her, he wouldn't push her too far.

(If he  _had_ wanted to push her further, to shatter this beyond repair, he'd have called her a mudblood. A pointless, silly little blood slur, but he had a feeling nothing would sever this relationship faster than him confirming her suspicions that he actually cared about such things.)

"Still," she continued, expression no longer holding that amusement, but looking suddenly sharper, "I'd strongly suggest you never mention my parents again. Not unless you want things to start getting really ugly, really fast."

He now understood the hardened expression; She was  _daring_ him, offering up a challenge just to see if he'd take it. It was unwise, he knew, to go into such things without any prior knowledge of them, but in this case he couldn't resist. It was too tempting.

Coming to Hogwarts, he knew he needed to master impulse control. He knew he needed to prevent the damage rather than just backpedal once it was done. There could not be another Dumbledore.

She consistently made that difficult. He couldn't pinpoint what exactly it was that she did that made him feel less in control of himself, simultaneously wired with excess energy and yet more at ease than ever, but it was something he had noted repeatedly.

Leaning forward, elbows placed on his knees, he rose to the occasion and met her challenge. "Is that so?"

Mirroring his body language, she left only inches between the two of them. The couch, leftover from the last professor to occupy the office, had been designed for three people, but they had both inched closer to the center, sitting on the edge of their own designated space and bleeding into the middle. He wanted to move closer still, to keep moving until he was able to feel the damp of her breath and the heat of her skin and the steady thrum of her pulse.

But he stayed still, waiting, because this was a challenge and a game and he was determined to win.

"Yes." She smiled, a soft smile that a lesser man may see as girlish, but he knew better. That smile reminded him of why he had grown so fond of her in the first place. It was sadistic malice and cruelty wrapped up in a deceptively beautiful and innocuous package.

"Because I know about your parents too. I know about your father, your grandparents, your poor uncle Morfin. He's in Azkaban now, isn't he? I know all about that trip you made to Little Hangleton, and I know what you did. So unless you'd like to talk about  _that_ , I suggest you not open that wound again."

As she finished, her smile widened, exposing incisors he had never until now seen as sharp. He felt like ice water had just been dumped down his back, pulse suddenly quickening and he knew  _she_ knew, that she could see all the physiological responses she just caused. There was no other explanation for the way she was looking at him with that amused, triumphant little grin that he was not at all used to being on the receiving end of. Having never been in this position before, he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do here.

He hadn't expected her to know. He hadn't expected anyone to know. Though, now that he gave it more than a mere second of thought, it might simply be best to assume she knew everything unless given reason to believe she didn't. It would certainly be safer.

He wondered how long she had known, and what exactly had tipped her off. From what he had learned of her, she lived in London. Little Hangleton was a small, barely distinguishable town. If she found out about the Riddle family murders, she must have gone looking.

Had she been looking for him, searching for him, just as he had been for her?

If she had known all this time though, and not told anyone(which clearly she hadn't, because if she had he wouldn't be here), that was further testament to her loyalty.

There was no mistaking that this little exchange was a power trip, a reminder of exactly how lenient she was and had been being with him. A warning that her limits would only stretch so far.

_Duly noted._

But this still began as a challenge, and he was not going to just roll over onto his back because she knew a bit more than he had anticipated. He remembered, quite vividly, the way she looked when she was surprised. In her mind, she had an idea of who he was and any diversion from that preconceived image seemed to make her brain just short circuit. It made her divert from her usual,  _oh so careful_ behavior. He  _knew_ he could use that to his advantage if he only put it to proper use.

She expected him to be defensive, angry, and desperate to conceal what he had done. So he'd respond by doing the opposite.

"What do you know about my family? I apologize if I-"

"What have I told you about using words you don't understand?"

"Provoked you," he finished, ignoring her interruption and not wanting to rehash the argument about whether or not he was allowed to use the word 'apologize'. "But you're mistaken in thinking I don't want to talk about it. Quite the contrary. You see, I have no desire to lie to you. I have no desire to hide my assortment of sins. Not from you. So go ahead. Ask, and you shall receive."

As she swallowed, her eyes frantically flickering from one of his irises to the other, searching for lies, for truth, for doubt, he knew he had successfully reversed the push and pull between them once again.

_Check, your move._

"Everyone who has ever been remotely close to you has thought that they alone had earned your trust, your favoritism. I'm not stupid, Tom. Charming as you are, I know I can't trust anything you say."

The words themselves sounded factual, clear, and yet he could hear the wavering doubt in her voice. She did not trust him, not truly, not yet, but she  _wanted_ to be proven wrong.

At some point throughout this, they had both come closer, gravitated towards the center of the sofa until their limbs nearly touched. Reaching up, he gently ran his knuckles over the cool skin of her cheek, noting the way her eyes briefly fluttered shut as she exhaled.

For all her talk of distrust towards him, for all the bickering and arguing and pushback, she still found comfort in his touch. She couldn't help it - constantly denying herself the luxury of genuine human interaction, she  _craved_ it. Denial aside, she was still his. Her unwillingness could not change that.

"If there's something you wish to know, all you need is ask."

Her lips pressed into a fine line as she suddenly averted her gaze, and he could practically see the gears in that remarkable brain of hers turning, attempting to figure out a way to prove if his honesty was genuine, attempting to figure out how she had all thoroughly ended up on her back when only a moment ago she had been the one in control. The very tip of her small, pink tongue darted out to wet her lips.

"You asked me to teach you legilimency," she said, eyes once again focusing back on his own. "You want to get inside my head, to pick it apart. Don't deny it, I know you. I know that's what you want. If you truly have nothing to hide from me, would you allow me into yours? To see whatever I want?"

He didn't even hesitate.

"Yes."

The risk was minimal, almost non-existent. Worst case scenario, she find something embarrassing, but even then he found that unlikely. Of the thoughts and memories that would interest her, he assumed awkward erections and social blunders would not be included. From the very first time he had met her, she had been picking his brain, attempting to understand how he worked and why.

At first, he had hated it. He hated feeling dissected and examined, but he now knew he had initially misunderstood. He was not something she wished to simply cut apart, document, and discard. No, she appreciated his mind, and she wanted to keep it for herself because she saw something familiar within it, within  _him._

There was nothing to be gained from hiding things from her, but potentially trust to be lost. He  _needed_ that trust.

Moving forward until his knees touched her own, he gently took her hands and lifted them towards himself, allowing her to cradle his face within her palms. Holding, damn near  _forcing,_  eye contact, the very foundation of legilimency, a gesture of vulnerability. She would understand how significant that gesture of trust was, even if it was more performative than practical.

"Go ahead and look."

The pad of her thumb brushed against his cheek, just under his eye, feeling colder than he imagined but not unpleasant. Her own cheeks had taken on a blush that began to spread down her neck and over her chest, disappearing under the cloth of her shirt. She couldn't force that, she couldn't fake it, and she couldn't hide it either. Anxiously, her eyes began to sweep over various places of his face. The skin under her fingertips, the flesh of his lips, the curve of his jaw, though they kept coming back to his expectantly waiting eyes. But, for whatever reason, she wasn't making a move.

If she wasn't going to dive into his brain, then fine. The fact that he was even allowing her to was the point. However you wanted to phrase it -it was her move, the ball was in her court, she had the wheel- it all came down to the same thing. He gave her the control, and yet she was just staring at him with the expression of a deer in the headlights.

It was maddening to have her so close, the silence between them only making the tension more palpable. If she didn't do something, anything, with this opportunity, he would.

 _Time's up_ , he decided, making her choice for her.

Closing the last bit of the gap between them, he raised his hands up to her face and leaned in. Finally close enough to feel it, her humid breath fanned across his jaw in a relieved exhale as her head tilted and eyes closed, body comprehending and responding the situation before her mind had any opportunity to contribute an opinion.

His lips had barely brushed hers when he felt it. When he had stolen the firewhiskey from her desk, drank straight from her lip print, it had felt somewhat similar. He couldn't think of anything else to describe what felt like liquid heat blooming from his chest and seeping into his veins, flooding every nerve in his body. He hadn't even had the opportunity to follow all the way through, to kiss her properly with pressure and precision, and he still felt almost overwhelmed by the close proximity alone.

He suddenly felt a sharp inhale, a gasp, against his lips and then less than a second later, her hands had left his face in favor of gripping his collar, of pushing him away.

Her lips, soft and cooler than he had imagined, had been pulled right out from under him before he even had the chance to properly appreciate them, let alone make good use of the opportunity.

It was hard not to feel cheated as he opened his eyes and saw her, her small frame scampering back to her edge of the couch, hand clawing up towards her chest in an attempt to contain what he was sure was a frantic heartbeat. No longer did her face hold any of its former expressions - not the smugness or condescension it had held when this conversation started, not the doubt or confusion as it progressed- now it held only a look of panicked, wide eyed horror.

But it was not the horror of someone who had been harmed and now feared for their safety. This was the unique type of horror reserved exclusively for those who managed to control their impulses just a second too early and a second too late. This was the expression of a woman standing on the edge of a precipice and realizing she put herself there.

"Get out." Her voice came out as barely a whisper, hushed and frantic and hurried for the sake of saying it while she still could.

"Hermion-"

"No, no." Suddenly, she was bolting straight up off the couch, crossing her arms over her chest and refusing to so much as look at him. She cleared her throat as though the panic in her voice were merely the effect of a repressed cough. "I can't teach you legilimency. You'll have to pursue that outside school. And you need to leave now. I can't - no, Tom, you need to leave."

Standing up, he moved towards her. She immediately shrunk back, not wanting to repeat the previous exchange and be forced to acknowledge her own traitorous responses, before correcting herself and forcing her feet back in place. She was looking up at him again now, nowhere to hide the flush in her cheeks or the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

"Goodnight, Hermione."

Part of him was tempted to call her professor, to salt her wound as punishment for refusing him, but he didn't. It would be counterproductive. It would push her away.

It would give validity to the part of her that rejected him, even though he was certain she wanted this just as he did, because it was  _wrong_.


	12. Petrichor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, here's an update
> 
> Petrichor: a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.

Since the incident in her office, Hermione had been avoiding him like the plague.

She had spontaneously changed her schedule so she no longer ran into him in the halls. Should she be forced to be near him, she would scurry away like a frightened little mouse every time he came so much as an inch too close. All of the sudden she decided to do her reading and grading in the library instead of her office, as though he wouldn't notice the sudden change in behavior. Sure, no one else would think anything of it(she always had spent an excessive amount of time in the library) for the time being, but he refused to believe that she honestly thought it would work long term.

Still, he allowed it to an extent.  _Let her hide away and lick her wounds_ , he decided, knowing that this routine change was unsustainable. She needed him, and eventually she'd give up.

The first day, he regarded it with amusement. It was  _funny_ , seeing her try so hard to seem like she wasn't flustered. While he usually spent much of the weekends in her office, he now watched her from his peripheral vision as she pointedly tried not to send him even a single glance.

When he "accidentally" pressed his body up against hers as he grabbed a book in an isolated corner of the history of magic section(charms to silence footsteps really do come in handy), she went rigid beneath him before breaking of the metaphorical spell and fleeing back to her very public, openly visible table. Her cheeks were flushed.

He didn't bother to hold back a snigger.

* * *

With classes back again on Monday, he looked forward to seeing her be forced to face him.

He remembered how in fifth year the class had interrogated her about the Chamber of Secrets. At the time, she spoke of it all with a tone that would have seemed relaxed if not for the slight bit of irritation it had been laced with.

He remembered last Christmas, how the staff and students still remaining at the school all sat at one table. She had been nervous, then, he knew, but she held her composure and kept up her perfect little act of the dutiful Professor.

But now, she couldn't even hold eye contact with him.

It was absolutely intoxicating to know he, and he alone, had the power to break her composure. And to think all it took was a bit of honesty and a featherlight kiss.

(Though, he remembered, it should have been more than that. He was still more than a bit put out that he hadn't gotten to kiss her properly.)

Looking forward to seeing how she would handle it when she couldn't just run from him, he eagerly entered her classroom, Dolohov trailing closely behind.

Unfortunately, it was not as fun as he had hoped it would be. With each passing moment he was ignored, he felt frustration for the little game she was playing begin to grow. He began to note every refusal to call on him in class with exasperation and irritation, rather than humor. He sat in the front of the room, as he always did, but rather than stand in front of her desk, in front of  _him,_  like she always did, like she  _should_ , she had made a point to stand as far away as possible on the other side of the room. She did not so much as glance in his direction.

Though he refused to show it, he was seething.

The one time she was forced to call on him, when no one else had raised a hand, she called out his last name almost dismissively, and didn't actually look at him. Later that same period he found himself in that situation again, except that one other person, a Gryffindor boy named Claudius Goldstein, had also offered an answer.

With how things had been going the past few days, he wasn't particularly  _surprised_ when she called on Goldstein instead of himself, but he was furious nonetheless.

If during potions the following morning, Claudius accidentally overheated his cauldron, causing his potion to blow up in his face and him to be sent to the infirmary before his skin could completely melt off, there was no way anyone could have pointed to Tom and a discreetly cast  _incendio_ as the cause.

Except Tony, who cast a concerned glance between Tom and the affected cauldron before subtlety shifting a few inches further away. It was an unspoken agreement that neither addressed the incident.

* * *

Tuesday morning, four days after Hermione had started avoiding him, he received a letter from Nicolas Flamel. A response to the letter Tom himself had sent over the summer, requesting an apprenticeship.

Flamel had never taken an apprentice, so when Tom began to unfold the paper, he prepared himself for what he knew was likely to be a professionally worded refusal. Rejection and insecurity were not things he was accustomed to, but disappointment was. Growing up in an orphanage, he had gotten used to things never being as they should and being denied that which he was entitled to.

Fingers fidgeting anxiously as he opened the envelope, he didn't have high hopes. Or hope at all, if he was being realistic about it. Still, despite how fate had spited him with his upbringing, it had worked in his favor once(and only once) before.

 _Twice now_ , he realized as his eyes scanned the page.

To be sure his eyes weren't deceiving him, he read the sentence that requested he come in for an interview three times. Then, just so he was sure he understood it, another two times.

November 29th, 4 p.m.

He'd have to talk to Dippet, both to have his absence noted to make sure he could use the Floo in his office, but that wouldn't be a problem. Dippet was practically wrapped around his finger. He wouldn't say no.

He looked up to the staff table, where all the owls had cleared and the staff were opening their own mail.

Hermione was still ignoring him.

* * *

If there was one, and only one, real advantage to not having her around, it was that he could discreetly continue practicing Legilimency on her cat. A simple scratch under the chin was enough to ensure it happily held sufficient eye contact, he had learned; no magic necessary, save for the casting of the spell itself. He seemed to have a knack for it, too, since he really was just experimenting at this point and yet the animal wasn't showing any signs of distress or brain damage.

Maybe it just had a particularly resilient head.

Though he hadn't been practicing for a long period of time(and he had no teacher), he seemed to be getting much better at forming a sense of control while within the cat's mind.

He could now, to a certain extent, control it's train of thought. Not entirely, he hadn't learned that yet, but he had learned how to "nudge" it into the direction he wanted, bringing forth associated thoughts and memories. The thoughts were more or less just physiological responses since cats(unlike snakes), did not have a language he could understand, but the memories were more straightforward - quite comparable to a human's.

Digging through its mind, he decided to follow one particular subject - Hermione - as far back as he could, back to its very first memory of meeting her.

_The cat, merely a kitten at this point, was stuffed into a cage with the rest of its litter. While it was rather fixated on holding down and biting the ears of its brother at the time, it registered in its mind that the voice it was hearing belonged to Hermione._

" _I'm just browsing" Hermione said, "I'm not entirely sure what I want. Just something so I'm not so lonely. I, um, just recently moved here and I don't know anyone yet. Some company might make it all feel a little more homey."_

" _A companion, eh? Well what kind of experience 'ave ya got?" A gruff, but young sounding voice that must have belonged to the shopkeeper replied._

" _I used to have a cat. Well, half Kneazel. His name was Crookshanks." Though the cat hadn't turned around, leaving Hermione still out of view, he could tell by her voice she had that nostalgic little half grin on. He hated it. He always hated it._

_If he felt a sudden flare of jealousy that another person got to see a bit of her honestly, he did his best to keep it contained._

"' _Crookshanks', huh? Odd name."_

_Though Tom couldn't see(damn cat wouldn't turn around, still), he imagined Hermione's grimace. "Yes, well, I wasn't the one who named him. And he was a very good boy, regardless."_

" _I'm sure he was. Well lucky for you, miss, we just got a litter of half Kneazels in earlier this week. Something familiar to make you feel a bit more at home?"_

" _Something familiar might be nice," Hermione replied softly._

_As footsteps approached the cage, all the kittens curiously moved to the front to observe._

_Finally, Hermione came into view. So did the shopkeeper, but he was less pleased about that. He was even less pleased about the way the man was looking at her - licking his lips like a hungry fox._

_She didn't seem to notice. He felt somewhat soothed by the way she didn't appear to pay the prat even the slightest bit of attention._

_The shopkeeper rested his hand against the bars of the cage, glancing back between the animals and the witch. "Six boys, only one girl I'm afraid. She's a bit of a runt, but don't let her size fool you. She's an absolute menace."_

_As she heard that, Hermione's expression morphed into a look of amusement. "Sounds like someone I used to know."_

As memory-Hermione reached into the cage, he pulled out of the cat's mind. It was still looking at him. It purred. He reached out and stroked its head, finding its misplaced adoration to be almost charming.

"I hope you bit that man," he told it as it wrapped its body around his arm, seeking more attention. "He put you in a cage and called you a runt. He would have deserved it if you did."

It flopped over onto its belly, and began rolling around in front of him. The last time it did this, he mistakenly thought it wanted a belly rub. He did not make the same mistake twice as he remembered how damn smug it looked when it tried to scratch him.

Instead, he placed a hand under its chin. "He was right though," he hummed, "you really are a menace."

If he allowed the cat to sleep on his bed that night, curled up against his chest and purring contentedly, it was only because by doing so he was depriving Hermione of her feline companion.

Absolutely no other reason.

* * *

Since Professor Granger had vacated her office, he had taken to studying back in the Slytherin common room.

His Knights had greeted him back with more enthusiasm than he thought was reasonable, but he didn't comment on it. They were all desperate for direction and approval. It wouldn't surprise him in the least if they had gotten lost without him over the approximate two weeks since school started.

Pulling out his books, he moved into his usual spot in the armchair to the left of the fireplace. Dolohov was in the chair beside himself. Malfoy, Avery, and Lestrange had taken the couch, and the rest of the boys had scattered along the floor. He mostly ignored them as they talked amongst themselves.

"Are you doing Quidditch again this year, Tom?"

He looked up from his book. "Probably not," he replied honestly, "it's my last year here. Quidditch is fun, sure, but it's a hobby. I have plans for after graduation, and I need to secure them."

A few solemn nods replied to him, as though the other boys hadn't even thought about how after all this, their plans would begin to truly come to fruition.

 _And yet, somehow, they were sorted into Slytherin_. Tom nearly scoffed.

"Is there anything we need to be doing, then? Now or after graduation. As Knights, I mean. We have to start somewhere, don't we? What are we - where do we begin?" Avery, a sixth year, asked. Despite being a year younger than himself, Avery was one of the more promising Knights in that his ambition was present, making his sorting into the noble house of Slytherin seem less like genetics and sheer luck.

A sly smirk formed on Tom's face. "You're not a dog, Marcus. The reason I picked you -all of you," he motioned with his hand to the group of boys surrounding him, "is because you're smart enough to not need constant orders. You'll do what I tell you, come when I need you, and you'll be rewarded for that. But the rest of the time? You're free. Do as you please as long as you don't get in my way."

About half of what he had just said was true. He did pick them all for a specific reason, but it had little to do with their intelligence and everything to do with their usefulness. If they  _did_ need constant orders, too bad for them, because he couldn't be arsed to babysit a bunch of grown men. Would they come when called and do as told? They had better. Would they be rewarded? Depends on the mood he was in, but they needn't know that.

Were they free? Absolutely not.

"Of course. But ehm, what will -what will you be doing?"

He pursed his lips. Since he got an interview confirmation letter about the Flamel apprenticeship, he knew that would radically change his plans - as though his plans had not already changed, if only because of his refusal to have Hermione working against him(even if she  _was_ being a right bitch at the moment).

After he killed his father, Tom decided he would change his name. He wanted nothing to do with the muggle who had sired and then promptly abandoned him. Sure, the pretty face was an advantage and he knew it(just the thought of inheriting his looks from Morfin was enough to make him shudder), but the name? Unnecessary. Common.  _Muggle_.

It had to go.

Or, it would have.

Last year, Hermione had told him there could be power in anonymity. That you can slip through the masses completely undetected by just seeming ordinary and unassuming. A common name would be an essential part of that. Malfoy, for example, could go nowhere without people noticing him. His surname always attracted attention even if by some miracle his pompous attitude did not.

But why would he need the stealth of anonymity when he could assume control through displays of power and intimidation? Why would he want to be seen as ordinary, when he knew he was so much more and deserved to be acknowledged as such?

He wouldn't, was the short answer.

But the Flamel apprenticeship was a perfect example of how sometimes you need to be a Certified, if not Genuine, Nice Boy to get the things you want. Based on everything he had read, Flamel was an obnoxiously kind person, with a strong sense of duty. There was no way he'd ever knowingly mentor a budding dark lord. But a poor orphan boy, simply looking to enrich lives? Intelligent but humble, ambitious but equally hard working, parentless but so  _brave_? Model student, school prefect -  _That_ would suck the old fool right in.

Lord Voldemort would have to wait.

"I'll be studying," he said, "at first, anyways. Learning ancient magic, lost magic, new magic - anyone can take NEWTs courses. We need to be better than that. Knowledge is power. We need to know magic our opposition can't even comprehend."

Around him, several of the boys made triumphant little snickering noises, as though  _they_ would be the ones with this power, but he did not correct them.

"As for the final goal," he continued, "I think something a bit more ambitious than we initially anticipated could be achieved. Something better."

Abraxas cleared his throat. "What do you mean 'more ambitious'? Isn't taking over the Ministry about as big as you can go?"

With that comment, his smirk returned. Of course no one else would even think to plan as big as he had. "Think outside the box, Brax. Why take over something as broken and unsalvageable as the Ministry when we can tear it to shreds, rebuild from the wreckage? No, we don't want the Ministry," he scoffed, stressing the ridiculousness of the mere thought, as though it had not been his idea in the first place, "we want so much more than that."

"What are you suggesting, then?"

"I am suggesting that eventually we evacuate muggle London and create an entire city where magic is free. Like Diagon Alley, like Hogsmeade, but on a much larger scale. We offer sanctuary and hope to all of the wizarding world, and then we reap the benefits of that without the hassle or limitations associated with always placating muggles. If we need to expand it from there, I'm sure we can. But London is an excellent start."

He could just feel the tension in the room shift as they all tried to wrap their heads around this new plan. He knew them well enough. None of them would care what the end game was, as long as their place near the top was secured. They were looking for someone to enable their delusions of superiority and fraternity to ensure their safety. As long as he could offer them that, they'd follow him anywhere.

"Isn't that kind of like what Grindelwald wants, though?"

Tom frowned. "No. He wants to create a hierarchy, with muggles at the bottom. I plan to separate us from them entirely, effectively ridding us from the plague of their existence."

Thoros Nott was the first to speak up after that. "What about the mudbloods, then? Prioritizing and elevating magic is key, obviously. But how do we keep the bloodlines pure if we leave  _them_ around? Leave them to fend for themselves amongst muggles, I'd say. If there's a new era of witch trials, that's hardly our problem."

Involuntarily, Tom felt his jaw tense, but he quickly corrected his demeanor before anyone could notice. "' _What about the mudbloods?'_ " He mused. "Hear me out on this one: I suggest we keep them."

A few faces morphed into expressions of doubt or distaste, but no one interrupted. "Sounds mad, doesn't it?" He asked, doing damage control on the issue even as he spoke. "No one is suggesting we dirty the ancient bloodlines - oh, no, no -we don't have to go there."

The 'you're free to inbreed yourselves to extinction' went unspoken and unacknowledged by the masses.

By now, Tom knew that getting people to agree with you was all a big word game. Semantics mattered more than actual politics, and if you coddled enough egos you could convince the powerful majority of anything.

"While I understand your point, Thoros, I disagree on a practical level. We can't leave them with muggles. We can argue for weeks on end about how mudblood magic is weak, unnatural, and impure, but unfortunately the fact is that it's magic. Magic is might. It's power, and if we leave them with muggles, we risk turning those wands against ourselves."

"Well then we don't give them wands?"

Tom, not appreciating having his political speech interrupted, shot Thoros a glare.

" _Metaphorical_ wands, Nott. Magic. We can take away their wands, but not their magic. They'll just train without them. I, personally, believe that would be much more of pain in the arse to deal with.

"Not to mention, I take it none of you are keen on the idea of being soldiers? Not disposable ones, anyways. We're talking about starting a war here. Eventually, people are going to die. It's best we don't unnecessarily risk losing any more of the Sacred Twenty Eight. How many of those families are even left?  _I'm_ the last descendant of the Gaunt family, the last descendents of Slytherin. Rosier, you're the only male heir to your line as well, correct?"

The boy in question nodded. "You're right. It's… unfortunate, but you're right. We should attempt to control every variable we can. Even the  _less appealing_  ones. We can't afford to risk any more magical blood than necessary."

Ignoring the subtle grimace on the boy's face, Tom smiled. "Correct. I know working with muggle spawn seems questionable, but you have my word, by the end magic will be proudly above all, just as it should."

To the boys, now excitedly talking amongst themselves about the new plan, the new goals, the new order they'd help create, 'magic' was synonymous with 'blood'.

Unfortunately for them, Tom didn't see it that way. He'd lead them, yes - right to the edge of a cliff, and shove them off as soon as he no longer needed them.

Dolohov had been verbally absent during this conversation, but looked up from his own book with his head cocked in curiosity. Tom arched a brow, daring him to respond.

They both turned back to their books.

* * *

With how on edge he had been feeling, he had even less patience than usual. It was harder to control violent and aggressive impulses.

He did, of course. He had no choice but to manage them. It just took significantly more effort than he was accustomed to.

Generally, when he was feeling particularly vexed, he'd tell Hermione exactly what he wanted to do about it. He never hid that side of himself from her because it never seemed to scare her. Rather, she talked to him about it almost like one talks about chores: with boredom, reluctance, and yet a sense of responsibility.

The conversations would often start with Tom saying something like, "Abraxas spent all of History of Magic tapping his quill. I wanted to shove it into his aorta."

To which Hermione would respond with something like, "if you had done that, you'd have been expelled. Even if Abraxas survived, and he probably would have, his family would likely have pushed for a full trial resulting in you being sentenced to Azkaban. If you had waited until there were no witnesses or pretended you'd been bewitched, he still would have ended up in the infirmary and Dippet is still feeling a bit nervous following the Chamber of Secrets incidents. And either way, you'd have gotten blood on your clothes. That would be annoying."

And he would nod and agree, feeling somewhat calmed. He did not question  _why_ it calmed him, despite the fact that she was not saying anything he didn't know already.

But now, sitting in Dumbledore's class, he felt like he was practically buzzing with repressed aggression. The class hadn't even started yet and he still could think of nearly nothing but ways to remove that damn twinkle from the eyes of that crooked-nosed fool.

Would the twinkle survive a sudden flash of green light, even if the rest of him would not? Tom felt a strong urge to test the hypothesis.

He took a deep, controlled breath and forced his hands into fists.

_If I kill my professor, I will be sentenced to Azkaban for life. I will not get to graduate Hogwarts. If I flee before authorities can catch me, I likely won't have time to take Hermione with me(leaving her vulnerable and likely targeted due to our noted closeness), nor would I have any suitable means of survival aside from further dark magic which is more easily traceable. I will not get the Flamel apprenticeship and therefore leave myself open to mortality._

It sounded less persuasive coming from himself, so he imagined it again. This time, using her voice, her mannerisms of speech,  _her_ , in the only way he could.

He took another deep breath.

That time, it worked a bit better. Not perfect, but manageable. He unclenched his fists and stretched his fingers.

Dumbledore moved to the front of the class, the lesson ready to begin.

"Today, we'll be starting a new unit, and while it does not directly relate to transfiguration, the topic will be covered within your NEWTs exams. Can anyone describe to me what Theoretical Magic is?"

A swotty little Ravenclaw in the first row raised her hand. "Theoretical Magic is magic that we know exists, but our understanding of the exact workings of its nature are only theoretical with limited solid proof. Still, the theories are often used to help develop new forms of practical magic, like charms, spells, and potions."

Dumbledore smiled. "Excellent, Miss Abbot. Take five points for Ravenclaw. Now, can anyone list the subjects that are included under the branch of Theoretical Magic?"

Carter Rookwood, a Slytherin, was the only one to raise a hand. "I can't list them, sir, but aren't a few of them rumored to be studied in the Department of Mysteries?"

"The work done in the Department of Mysteries is kept, as the name would imply, confidential," Dumbledore responded with a small smile. "Unless you're an Unspeakable, the most you'll find out is that the purpose of the Department is to research magic. The Ministry does not confirm or deny any more than that, though it wouldn't be unwise to assume that this research involves Theoretical Magic, yes.

"And since no one has offered to list the subsets of Theoretical Magic, I shall do so myself."

Behind him, a piece of chalk began to levitate above the chalkboard, copying his words as he spoke.

"There are seven subsets within Theoretical Magic: life, death, space, time, thought or consciousness, fate, and love. Can anyone tell me what all these things have in common?"

The Ravenclaw swot from before, Abbot, raised her hand again. "Despite being intangible concepts, sir, they all have profound and recordable effects on reality, magical or otherwise."

Dumbledore gave Ravenclaw another five points, and continued rambling about the lesson. Tom suddenly found himself feeling particularly bored, despite the still present feeling of underlying agitation.

While he was willing to admit the magical theory was important - extremely important - for developing new types of magic, the way Dumbledore spoke of these concepts was less academic and more sentimental, just thoroughly dripping in the drama and mystery of it all.

Tom very, very rarely found himself saying this, but a textbook would have been a better teacher.

"Since this is all about theory," Dumbledore continued, seemingly indifferent to the lack of attention from the class, "rather than practical assessment, I'll be assigning you each a book on one of the subjects. Instead of writing an essay, you'll be creating a presentation that allows you to teach each other about one of these theories."

Though Tom had just thought that he'd have preferred a textbook for a teacher, he still found himself feeling ungratefully frustrated with that. Why even bother employing the old codger if he wasn't going to teach? And did he trust his classmates to be able to accurately inform him about a complex magical theory? He didn't even trust them to know what day of the week it was or if their shoes were on the right feet.

But the most irritating aspect of all of this, was that Dumbledore had said he'd be  _assigning_ the topics to them - meaning they could not simply pick for themselves.

Having already studied the basic theories of life and death, Tom would have skipped over those, but he would have actually appreciated being instructed to more thoroughly research fate or consciousness. Now, however, he was absolutely certain that Dumbledore was using this opportunity to spite him specifically, and that he'd be assigned a book about  _love_ , as though that could, in any way, shape, or form, be useful to him.

Using all his self control and patience, he tried not to appear seething as Dumbledore handed him a note with a book title before moving on to the next student. He took a deep breath before looking down at the title.

 _The Ageless Mysteries of Time, by Hector Cornelius Warren_  was written on the paper.

* * *

"Well this certainly is odd."

Tom, as instructed, had gone to the library to check out the book he needed for Transfiguration. Unfortunately, having never studied the subject, he had no idea where it was. As a result, he consulted the school librarian.

Madam DeClaire shook her head again as she stared at the bookshelf in front of them. "It's not here. In fact,  _none_ of the books about the science of time are here. I don't recall them being checked out either," she trailed off, scratching her head. A moment later, she let out a sigh. "Forgive me, but they aren't even interesting! Of all the books to steal, why would anyone bother with those? We put anti-theft charms on the Quidditch books, but usually everything else is only even touched once or twice a year."

He stood there quietly as she scanned the surrounding shelves. Not expecting the missing book to simply pop into existence, he still had the manners to know not to walk way when someone was talking to him.

She turned to him as she finished. "Are you sure that's the book Dumbledore wanted you to read? Most of the books discussing theoretical magic are inconclusive at best, but that one in particular is just gibberish. I don't know why we even have it - Warren should have been in Mungos, believe me. The whole thing is just nonsense about how he believed time travelers live among us, corrupting the government. It's rubbish. I can't imagine why Dumbledore would give you that. Perhaps he was thinking of something else? Got the title confused with another?"

Tom, who had more or less stopped listening after 'it's not here', shrugged. "That's what's written on the paper, ma'am."

"I'll write you a note," she replied as she turned and summoned a bit of parchment. She pulled a quill from her hair. "You can give it to Dumbledore next time you have his class. He'll give you extra time to study, don't worry. He's a very understanding man."

Taking the note in his hand, Tom nodded, thanked her despite her lack of help, and exited the library.

* * *

Six days in, Dolohov noticed, and Tom no longer felt like Hermione's determination to avoid him was a game. No, now it was just annoying. No humor in it whatsoever.

"Is everything, ehm,  _alright_  with you and Granger?"

He took note of the boy next to him, not missing the way he had taken on a subtle yet clearly defensive stance. Even the wording of the question was off - he'd expect that kind of skittishness in word choice from one of the other boys(Avery, for example, couldn't speak three words to him without stuttering), but Tony was so blunt it often bordered on rude.

In a casual motion, Tom began checking his fingernails for non-existent dirt as they walked to their next class. "Any particular reason you're asking?"

"Well, not really. It's more just that you…" he trailed off, pressing his lips into a thin line and furrowing his brows.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Tony, just spit it out. I don't keep you around for for subtlety or charisma - I'm not going to beat you for whatever it is you're thinking."

Whether or not he really meant that was to be determined.

The other boy released a relieved breath. When he opened his mouth again, it was like a dam broke. "Okay, so usually you two - well, you look at her, you know, like you do, and she-"

"'Like I do'? What the bloody hell does that mean?"

"It's somewhere between how I imagine a wolf looks at a rabbit and like you're eye-fucking her. It's a bit odd that no one else has noticed, actually. Though I do regularly find myself astounded by the obliviousness of the residents of this castle, so I suppose-"

"Tony. Back to the point."

The primary reason Tom preferred Dolohov's company over that of his other friends was that,  _usually_ , he was quiet. He asked short, to-the-point questions, and kept his answers informative yet concise. He did not prattle on and on about Quidditch or what color knickers his latest hookup had been wearing. He did not bother the people around him unnecessarily and generally kept to his own business.

The only notable exception to this aspect of his personality was that when he found something uniquely intriguing, he would ramble until someone stopped him. If he was rambling  _now_ , on this particular subject, it could only mean one thing.

Tom narrowed his eyes in the direction of the other boy, but stayed silent for the time being.

"Yes, sorry - well, you look at her  _like you do_ , and she looks at you - kind of like the other professors do, actually, but it's weird when she does it - anyways, that's normal. Not  _normal_ , really, it's quite strange and a bit uncomfortable to witness, but it is usual."

" _Tony_ -" he warned again, finding his patience wearing particularly thin.

"Right, right." He paused, taking a deep breath. "When you handed in your essay, she snapped her quill in half trying not to look at you. Why was she trying not to look at you?"

Tom bit the inside of his cheek, literally biting back a grin. She really had done that, hadn't she? At the time, he was so frustrated he hadn't appreciated it. He still felt exasperated by the ridiculousness of the situation, but he could admit it was somewhat endearing.

Still annoying, though.

"There's nothing to be concerned about," he replied plainly, "she's just… stressed."

"About what?"

"I really don't see how that's any of your concern."

Dolohov looked up, giving him a look that radiated caution. "It's not. It's just - there is one other thing I've been wondering about."

"Oh?"

"Do you promise not to kill me if I ask something that could very possibly be interpreted as offensive?"

"No, but you'll ask it anyways."

With a shrug of fairness, the other nodded. "Is Granger a-" he cut himself off, snapping his mouth shut as he mentally rephrased his question. A wise choice. "You said you don't want to kill the mudbloods anymore. Is that because of her?"

He felt his hand twitch for his wand. The word mudblood was one he had heard a dozen times a day, and it wasn't like he didn't say it himself. It was still different when the slur was being applied to  _her_.

Forcing his expression into an unreadable mask, Tom thought over his response. While he generally preferred to take any opportunity he could to instill a false sense of trust in those around him, it would not do to have his men doubt his commitment to the cause(and he would  _not_ risk putting Hermione in any danger by outing her blood status). That was a recipe for mutiny, and he had worked too hard to allow that.

"No. I do, however, value her input. And as I'm sure you know, as Head Boy it's my responsibility to deduct points when I hear foul language. I know I often turn a blind eye, but if you're going to be directing it at your  _superior_ , I don't think I can, even for a friend."

Tony gave him a bemused glance. "Tom, I'm a half-blood. You know that."

"How is that of relevance?"

Dolohov sighed. "Alright, let me rephrase this. You said that we're not dirtying the ancient lines, yeah? Well, my blood is already uh, tainted, so to speak. So, would it really matter if I…?" He trailed off, leaving the end of his question unspoken and yet clearly understood.

Tom, now realizing that he may have misinterpreted the reason for this conversation, rolled his eyes.

_How painfully typical._

There was a decent sized portion of his following, Dolohov included, who were not part of the Sacred Twenty Eight. Their devotion to his cause was contingent on his ability to enable their selfishness, pride, and greed. For them, blood purity was just a way to give themselves a false sense of superiority and socially acceptable targets for their sadism. He taught them refined forms of cruelty and promised them an elevated status in his new order - blood purity, though the face of his cause, was not what really drew people in.

Given the idiocy of the average human, Tom knew he probably should have expected that carnal desires would eventually be a topic that needed addressing.

He nearly scoffed. "I don't care how you get your prick wet as long as it doesn't affect me," he answered, not bothering to mask the contempt in his voice. "To expand on that, I really don't care what you do  _at all_ so long as it doesn't affect me. I'm not a babysitter."

"Noted."

For a moment, neither spoke as they continued their way to the Slytherin common room.

Dolohov broke the silence. "Are you sure Granger is just 'stressed'? None of my business, I know, but if things don't even out between you two, someone is bound to notice and ask why. A bit ironic that seeing you two together is less suspicious than the alternative, but it is."

Reluctantly, Tom admitted he was right -  _everyone_ seemed to have noticed his closeness with Hermione. Even Dippet had commented that he was happy to see Hermione "had taken an elder sisterly role" in the life of poor, parentless Tom Riddle.

(If Dippet had sisters, Tom decidedly did not want to meet them.)

Thus far, no one(excluding Dolohov) had any suspicions that their relationship was inappropriate at all. However, with the lack of subtlety Hermione was displaying, he knew better than to assume that no one would notice if it continued. It had been almost a week - he could not allow this to go on any longer.

"I need to go to the library," he said with no intentions of doing so as he began to move back towards the stairs.

* * *

Though Hermione's office was locked, that had never stopped him before. He decided that, if she wouldn't just apologize and come back, he would have to lie in wait for her. Eventually, she'd have to come back to her office. She had no other choice - it was the only way to reach her bedroom. It's not like she could just not sleep.

So he waited.

First, he stretched out onto her couch with a book, though his anticipation caused him to get bored of that rather quickly. Instead, he decided to look around a bit more. Remembering that he now knew how to get into her room, he eagerly found the bookshelf concealed entrance and pulled out the beaten down copy of  _The Tales of Beedle the Bard._

The effect was instantaneous, with the bookshelf pushing back before vanishing into the wall, and then the remaining stone shifting apart to form an archway. He stepped inside.

It looked just as it had last time, except that this time the bed was made and it looked like the sheets had been changed. Rather than a lilac flannel, they appeared to be a periwinkle cotton material.

It was good to know she was in the habit of keeping her surroundings clean.

Now that he had unsupervised access to her bedroom, he decided to nose through her belongings. He had seen the things she kept in her office a million times by now, but the only time he had an opportunity to look through her room she had stopped him. Since she had taken to hiding, it was her own fault she was unable to prevent him from doing so now.

Being the type of person that he was, the very first place he decided to look was the drawer she had halted him from accessing previously.

His initial assessment had been correct: that drawer was where she kept her knickers.

And while normally, he would have simply closed the drawer and moved on(truly, he did not understand the fascination other men seemed to have with women's underthings - they weren't all that interesting. Not even Hermione's), he noticed that hers were, well,  _weird_. The fabric was not like any kind he'd seen before, and the cut was strange, showing  _far_ more skin than he'd seen in even the dirty magazines that the boys smuggled into the orphanage. Maybe they were foreign? American, perhaps?

There were no girdles, either, though he hadn't been expecting any. Hermione had always been quite vocal about her opinion on restrictive shapewear. The brassieres, he noted, were also different than anything he'd seen before. They were softer, much thinner, and the shape of the cup was rounder(more natural looking, and less like the pointed shape that was currently popular). Again, he guessed they were foreign or chosen for comfort and practicality. The lace detailing, though, definitely earned his approval.

With a final bemused glance at the knickers, he closed the drawer and moved onto the others.

In the top drawer, he found what appeared to be men's shirts and jumpers. One of them, a button up shirt, he recognized as the one she had been wearing when she had woken him up a few weeks before. That realization made him much less unsettled - men's clothes were more comfortable. She very plausibly could have bought them for herself.

Why she had two scratchy sweaters with the letters "H" and "R" knitted into the front, a Gryffindor sweater, and a Bulgarian Quidditch jersey labeled "Krum" he could not immediately explain, but decided not to mentally pursue further as he moved to the bottom drawers.

Trousers. The bottom two drawers were full of a variety of muggle trousers. Soft pairs made of cotton designed for sleep(notably, also men's), denim pairs that appeared to be for women but were far tighter than anything he'd ever seen before, and a few pairs that were so short they could  _only_ be bizarre lingerie because wearing them in public would be indecent.

Bored, he stepped away from the dresser and continued throughout the room.

Her closet was where she kept all the clothes he usually saw her wear - skirts, blouses, dresses, and wizarding robes. Normal-woman clothes.

With the limited amount of furniture in the room, all that was left was the nightstand. Going through that, he found nothing of interest. A golden snitch, a cigarette lighter(the irony that she had scolded him for smoking was not lost on him), a few books, nail varnish, a lip balm, a silver knife( _why?_ ), and a bottle of lotion.

Boring.

With an exasperated sigh, he leaned back into her bed. He hadn't expected her room to have anything of much use to him, but he still felt slightly disappointed that there wasn't more here.

Well, there was the beaded bag she kept under her bed, he remembered, but he didn't bother to retrieve it. It's not like that could hold much of anything anyways. It was barely the size of his fist.

He kicked off his shoes, settled into her bed, then grabbed one of the books from her nightstand and began to read.

* * *

By dinner, Hermione still hadn't come. He hadn't really been expecting her to given her new schedule, but it still annoyed him and he was absolutely not willing to miss a Hogwarts meal, so he went back to her office and summoned a house elf(an advantage of being Head Boy) to bring him supper.

Pulling out his potions homework, he continued waiting.

* * *

The sun had set, his homework was finished, his wristwatch was buzzing to remind him he had to check in with Slughorn before his Prefect rounds, and Hermione  _still_ hadn't come back to her office.

He had been waiting for over  _seven hours_.

This was wholly unacceptable.

Patience had never been his strong suit and he could feel himself practically shaking from the strain of holding back his urge to break something. If he stayed in her office any longer, he was nearly positive his control would snap and her office would be torn to shreds in a fit of rage.

_Not that she wouldn't deserve it._

Taking a deep breath, he clenched and relaxed his fists several times before taking calmly measured steps from the room.

* * *

Tom spent his entire Prefect rounds ruminating on how to solve his problem. The issue was only exacerbated by the fact that he was in no rational state of mind to plan anything, and his efforts resulted in little more than ill contrived plots.

The night wasn't much better, for his usual method of triggering sleep was to re-read the book Hermione had given him. In his current state, he dared not touch it for fear that he'd completely destroy it in his frustration.

The following morning saw the result of a tired, disgruntled, and very temperamental Tom Riddle. Not even Dolohov was willing to risk saying a word to him, though he did very carefully pass Tom the jam for his toast at breakfast without being asked to do so.

For the first time, he requested a Calming Draught from the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey, after taking one look at him, asked no questions and simply handed him the phial. She told him if he wanted to take the day off to rest, she'd write him a note.

Politely, he declined.

Feeling a renewed(though artificial) sense of calm, he walked through the door to his first class of the day, Transfiguration, and walked directly up to Dumbledore's desk. Much as he loathed the man, he found that having just taken the Calming Draught soothed his irritation about both having to arrive early and having to interact with the old codger at all.

He pulled the note from the librarian from his pocket, unfolded it, and held it out. "I was told to give you this, sir."

Dumbledore took the note, readjusted his spectacles, and began to read. "Ah."

 _What an articulate response,_ mused Tom.

"You could give me another subject to study," Tom replied, "Madam DeClaire said all the books about time were gone. She didn't know why."

Dumbledore gave him an appraising look. "Is that so?"

Tom nodded.

"While I suppose I could give you another subject, I shan't. You see, you are the only one who was assigned that particular subject and it's important we not leave it out entirely."

"Perhaps another book then?" Tom countered back. "Forgive me, but Madam DeClaire said that book wasn't the best choice anyways. And while the ones in the Theoretical Magic section were gone, if the topic is mentioned elsewhere then-"

Dumbledore raised a hand, cutting him off. "No, I'm afraid not. While I do trust the judgment of our librarian, I must disagree - and I think you will too. You'll find that book has more value than is understood by most, I expect.

"And regardless, we simply cannot have books missing from our library. No, I'll send in an owl order to Flourish and Blotts and have another copy sent straight away. I'll give you additional time to complete the assignment, should you find it necessary. As for today, most of the class was going to be reading, so you may be excused."

Even under the influence of a Calming Draught, Tom found this a bit unsettling. As a teacher, Dumbledore should be qualified enough to simply teach the topic himself, without needing to study it first. The most logical solution would be to give Tom another subject and to teach the subject of time individually, without making it a student project.

Much as Tom liked to call him a fool, he knew that Dumbledore was not truly stupid. Surely, he saw this.

Furthermore, as a rule, Dumbledore did not make allowances for him(even reasonable ones). The last time the man had shown him any praise, Hermione had (more or less)panicked and stood her ground to defend him from what she was certain was an attempt at grooming and exploitation.

As a reflex, Tom slid his hand into his pocket and found the golden coin Hermione had given him.

' _For emergencies'_ , she had said.

With the feeling of the metal against his palm, a realization dawned on him.

He looked back at the old man in front of him, who was in turn looking back at him expectantly, and smiled. "Thank you, sir."

* * *

With a quick run to the infirmary, he told Madam Pomfrey he had changed his mind and that he'd like to spend the afternoon resting. She was all too happy to oblige, telling him, "you work too hard, Tom," and allowing him the opportunity to fully form the plan that had begun to hatch in Transfiguration.

The coins.

He could not believe he had forgotten about them - but, then again, perhaps it was best that he had. Had he used them any earlier, Hermione would have assumed he was lying.

But now? Now, she had left poor, troubled Tom Riddle to his own devices. Without her guidance, she was leaving him utterly defenseless against Dumbledore's attempts at recruitment.

In his solitude, he didn't bother holding back his laughter. Holding himself up against a wall, he laughed until his sides were in stitches.

Hermione was far beyond clever, but her protective instincts would be too strong to resist. Even if she considered that he might be lying, she wouldn't want to risk it. She'd run, following her urge to defend him, right back into his waiting arms, where he would  _not_ let her go.

Oh, this was going to be brilliant.

* * *

He made sure to time it perfectly - after classes, when she was free, but not immediately after, when the halls would be full of students.

The fact that there was a large hidden alcove in the hallway near Dumbledore's classroom and that the portraits in that hall were particularly lazy was sheer luck, but he would use it to his advantage.

Though the alcoves were originally designed by Rowena Ravenclaw with the intention being that people of multiple houses could study together(common room locations were meant to be kept secret, and the library was to be kept quiet), now they were more often than not just used for hookups and to hide from Prefects after curfew. The amount of bodily fluids that had probably been vanished or cleaned from the built in bench was nauseating to think about.

Still, he would not look a gift horse in the mouth.

He did, however, cast a sanitizing charm.

Pulling the coin from his pocket, he waited with anticipation as he touched it with his wand and spelled three words onto the surface.

_Dumbledore's classroom_

_Now_

He felt the metal burn hot, signifying the message had sent, as he pushed himself up against the wall and listened.

Within less than ten minutes, he heard the telltale click of her heels(she hadn't even taken the time to change into sensible footwear) against the stone, and he cast three nonverbal spells in quick succession.

First, a Notice-Me-Not charm on himself, and then a second on her.

Before she had time to even feel the charm affect her(and subsequently trigger her fight or flight instincts), he cast a Confundus Charm.

As soon as he saw the dazed look in her eyes, he struck.

Pulling her arm back with nearly enough force to dislocate her shoulder, he pulled her back into the alcove with him and shoved her up against the wall. Even in her Confunded state, even as her neck wrenched back and her head struck the stone, she had the reflexes to immediately go for her wand. While he couldn't deny he was impressed, he could not allow it. In response he twisted her fingers until the wand fell from her grasp with an audible clatter against the floor. A barely noticeable whimper left her. He wasted no time restraining her wrists with one hand, and wrapping the other firmly around her throat.

With the understanding that he finally,  _finally_ , had her back, he smiled.

She blinked a few times, the Confundus charm quickly wearing off, before she looked at him with firm clarity, appearing to now fully understand her situation. She did not seem to share the sentiment. "You lied," she surmised.

"Indeed," he hummed in response, not letting up on his grip. He swore he saw a look of disappointment, of  _hurt_ , flash through her gaze but just as quickly, it was gone and replaced with a stoney glare.

"This is inappropriate," she then said.

Was that really all she had to say? He felt nearly insulted that she had such an understated reaction.

That was a stupid, worthless assessment, so he ignored her. If that was all she had to say, he decided he didn't want to hear her voice right now.

Able to feel her pulse underneath his fingertips, he began to wonder how it would feel to just  _press_ , to crush her trachea in the palm of his hand while she gasped and coughed and sputtered, eyes involuntarily watering. He slowly increased the pressure of his grip.

_She deserved it, didn't she? For hiding, for leaving, for depriving him-_

"Tom?" He loosened his grip again. "What are you doing?"

Slowly, he opened his fist, ridding himself of the temptation entirely. Her life was not something he could allow himself to be reckless with, no matter how angry he was. Moving his hand downwards, he allowed it to rest on the top of her chest instead, fingers hooking into the dips of her collarbone. He returned his attention to her face, her eyes.

It surprised him to see no fear. Eager to get to her again, he had not been gentle. Panic or tears would not have been unjustified, but her eyes were dry and she didn't seem to be frightened at all. He wondered if it was because she didn't think he'd genuinely hurt her, or if she just didn't care if he did.

"You've been avoiding me."

"That's not-"

"You're an abysmal liar. Don't insult my intelligence by even trying."

She really wasn't - he actually couldn't remember a time that he knew, for a fact, that she was lying rather than just bring indirect(her usual modus operandi). He was the only one who seemed to notice how she was always redirecting topics away from herself, carefully avoiding answering any personal questions. The only reason he even noticed was because he had taken the time to study her, to observe her every response. Still, his patience was already tissue paper thin. He would rather skip the attempt at deceit and move forward.

Thinking better of trying to argue, her mouth snapped shut. A moment of consideration later, she spoke. "What are you going to do?"

He licked his lips. Up until now, his main focus had been on getting her back where she belonged. He hadn't thought about what he was going to actually  _do_ once he had her. There was something thrilling about the realization that not only did he have her, right in front of him and literally underneath his fingertips, but that he could do whatever he wanted to her.

Slowly, he began moving the hand that wasn't holding her to the wall. He could hurt her, if he wanted to. He knew he couldn't be reckless with her life, but her body - that was different. They both knew healing spells. There wouldn't be lasting damage. It could be cathartic, maybe even for them both.

His head began to excitedly spin with ideas of all the ways he could express exactly how much he had noted her absence. Choke her until the light  _nearly_ left her eyes, then let her go, let her breathe, only to start all over again once she had almost recovered. He could break those dainty, delicate wrists he held in his hand. He could leave her covered in marks and bruises. After denying him, it could be argued that she had earned it.

He traced over her collarbone, noting the exact shape of the bone, the softness of the skin covering it, before moving to the other one and repeating the same motion. Moving his hand lower, he consciously acknowledged that, no, he didn't want to hurt her. Not in this moment.

In this moment, he wanted something else entirely.

"How long did you think this little game of hide and seek would last?" He hummed, running his hand his hand down the center of her chest, between the swell of her breasts, before moving across her ribcage, gripping her waist.

"Tom-" She said his name again, though he wasn't sure if it was a question or a warning. A well hidden tremor hid within the growl of her tone. Always a tough little witch, she refused to show weakness or fear. "Hands are a privilege. Don't do anything that would make me have to revoke them."

Biting back a laugh(now was  _not_ the time), he looked up. Hiding his excitement, he kept his tone even. "I asked you a question, Hermione. How long did you think you could hide from me?"

"I didn't," she answered with a clear, biting tone, "I'm your teacher. You come to my class. We live in the same building. I know better than to think I can 'hide' from you. Just because I'm not at your beck and call doesn't mean I'm 'hiding.'"

A short laugh escaped his throat. "And yet you've done everything you can to keep yourself just out of my reach." The hand on her waist lowered just over an inch, until it found her hip bone and gripped, fingers harshly digging into the flesh to demonstrate how now, she was not only within his reach but trapped in his grasp. Fully at his mercy.

He wet his lips. "I'd have thought you'd know better. Haven't you figured out that there's nowhere you can go where I can't follow? That I'll always find you, no matter what?"

"You sound like a lunatic. Perhaps you should see Madam Pomfrey."

"I already did," he replied flatly.

Leaning forward, he placed one of his knees between her own. She suddenly tensed and tried to shuffle her legs closed. When his knee stopped her from being able to close her legs completely, she squared her shoulders(to the best of her ability, seeing as her wrists were restrained above her head. It was more of a performative gesture) and tilted her jaw upwards so she was looking directly at him again.

"I'm not scared of you. You can threaten and intimidate me all you like, but you won't accomplish anything."

He couldn't restrain an amused chuckle. "Such a pessimist, aren't you? How do you know I don't just want to talk? It's been over a week, you know. Since we last spoke. Since I last was able to touch you. Maybe I've simply  _missed_  you."

Refusing to respond, she turned her head. Her jaw tensed. He found her defiant refusal to look at him caused a brief flash of annoyance.

But he was nothing if not adaptable.

Again, he leaned further in. He tilted his head and placed his lips near the corner of her jaw, allowing himself to whisper intimately in her ear while his breath fanned over her skin, forcing her to be all too aware of his presence. If she wouldn't look at him, she'd still feel him there. This time, he wouldn't let her refuse or run away. This time, she could not deny him.

"I listen, you know," he told her, nearly murmuring the words into her skin, reveling in the shiver it -no,  _he_ \- caused, "when you talk. I always listen. And that's how I know that this isn't about me.

"You've been rather rude to me, haven't you? Quite mean. You've called me all sorts of names. Narcissist, psychopath,  _monster_ ," with that last bit, he increased the pressure on his grip. He was tempted,  _so tempted_ , to bite her, to nip at the skin of her neck, to mark her and remind her who she belonged to, but he restrained himself. Not now. Not yet.

_(Later, definitely.)_

"You're lucky that I'm not so sensitive," he continued, "that I don't take it personally. Another person, a lesser man, would have been horrendously offended by those insinuations, Hermione. Surely you know that. But not me. Because I know you.

"And it's not me you're reminding, is it, sweetheart? Because that fear, that clenching in your gut and aching in your chest, it's not about me. It's not about what  _I_ am, it's about what  _you_ are. I'm a monster, fine, but I'm  _your_ monster. And you know it. And it makes you feel dirty, no,  _filthy_ , and guilty only because you love it." Tauntingly, he pressed a chaste kiss underneath her ear.

Her head snapped towards him, and he leaned back just a bit so he could see her expression fully, see all the chaos and inner turmoil he brought to light. He lit the match, and now he wanted to watch it burn.

"You're right," she spat, utter disdain dripping from her lips, "I'm not a sociopath who can spend years getting to know someone, relating to them,  _taking care of them_ , and have no feelings towards them at all. I'm not going to apologize for having empathy, if that's what you're expecting here."

"Oh sure," he smiled down at her. "Not a sociopath, just a coward. Too afraid of your own  _feelings_  to think about how-"

He never got to finish his sentence, because even though he had her wrists restrained, her legs were free. Her knee came up, collided harshly with the flesh of his groin, and sent him doubling over with an unexpected, white hot flash of pain. With a pained groan, he reflexively released his hold on her wrists.

" _You_ don't get to call me a coward!" She pushed back against him just as he righted himself, and though he didn't fall over he was surprised by the force behind her blow. He was surprised to note that it actually  _hurt_ , rather than just being an inconvenient shove. "You have no idea what I've been through - what I've had to  _sacrifice_ -"

He had no idea what she was on about, but for what she lacked in coherency, she made up for by shoving him in the chest. Not that he was really listening all that closely either, since he had just come to a rather alarming realization:

He had never been in control, never had the upper hand, and she had simply been allowing him the illusion by not attempting to fight back.

"Do you actually think I  _want_ to be doing any of this? That I don't have anything better to do? I had plans, you know! I had goals! I had dreams I'm never going to get to accomplish now because-" she blinked, stuttering, "because-"

She broke off with a broken sounding shriek, deciding to punctuate the end of her sentence with a shove so hard it pushed him back onto the bench of the alcove and forced the air from his lungs.

Not for the first time, he found himself truly grateful for the founders of the school. This time, however, it had very little to do with the actual existence of the school he had come to view as home, and everything to do with the fact that he was certain the only way these silencing charms could hold against the volume of Hermione's screaming was if Ravenclaw herself had cast them.

And yet she still wasn't done.

First, she removed each of her shoes and threw them at him. Luckily, the heels did not make impact.

While his own body was now pressed into a forced seating position within the alcove, she continued her assault by climbing onto him, straddling his thighs and beating her fists against his torso like a woman possessed.

Though he felt every shove she gave his shoulders, his chest, he hardly registered them, too stunned and too fixated on watching the woman in front of him go absolutely mad. Her hair had escaped the confines of the plait she had braided it into. Errant curls fell into her face, now flushing with exertion and holding an expression of anguished torment.

She looked deranged. Positively batty. Never had he seen her composure slip, seen her so utterly lose control of herself.

The tips of his fingers suddenly felt restless, and he was all too aware of a tingling feeling across his skin. His mouth felt dry, and he realized what he wanted.

In a single, swift motion, he caught her wrists within his hands and pulled her forward, flush against his chest. He heard her curse right as he pressed his lips to hers in a demanding, searing kiss.

Even as she pulled against his grasp, she kissed back. "I hate you," she growled against his lips.

He pulled away just long enough to breathe and bite back, " _no._ "

" _Yes_." Lips moved to the corner of his jaw while his own moved to her throat, marking her as he had earlier planned to.

He sneered. "This doesn't feel like hate, sweetheart." Her hands freed themselves from his grasp and she roughly took hold of his face.

Teeth sunk into his lower lip, biting him in a harsh, reprimanding way. He bit her back. The dialogue ceased.

Not making an effort to restrain her again, he allowed her hands to seek him freely. Her grasp moved to the collar of his shirt, his hair. She pulled. Taking advantage of the moment, he used his now free hands to curiously roam her body, giving extra attention to the curve of her waist and hips. When his searching hands found her backside, she pushed back on his sternum.

His hips jerked involuntarily, forcing the hardness in his lap to rub against her and a mind-fuzzing jolt to rush up his spine. Head throwing back, a noise left her throat. He had heard of women moaning in pleasure, in pain, but he had never heard nor imagined a sound like that. There was no single word he could think of to describe how it sounded - desperate, throaty, somewhere between a choked cough and a sob. When she recovered, her gaze had darkened significantly. He wondered briefly if that felt as good for her as it did for him, and just to test it, just to see, he repeated the motion.

As he did, her teeth sunk into a certain sensitive spot between his neck and shoulder, causing his vision to go white and suddenly he couldn't think at all.

Push, pull, bite, tug, pinch. He wasn't sure how long the cycle lasted, and he was nearly positive kissing was not supposed to be so furious, frenzied, or chaotic, but he couldn't deny it was extremely pleasurable. Quite possibly one of the best experiences he had ever had.

 _No_ , he mentally corrected as her hips rolled against his own again,  _definitely._

Much to his surprise, he was more gentle than she was. Though they both mauled each other with teeth and claws, he would soothe each bite with a tender rub of his tongue and each scratch was accompanied by a gentle petting motion. She offered him no such courtesy. He hardly minded as their tongues met again.

After a while(he wasn't sure how long and he wasn't about to check), their frantic movements slowed to a lazy pace, before finally stilling entirely. He had leaned his back leisurely against the stone wall behind him, one hand still holding tightly to Hermione's waist while the other rested against her thigh. She, in contrast, had used her arms to prop herself up against his shoulders. Her spine had arched forward, head and shoulders slumping in, and he could hear her heavy, somewhat strained breathing.

A spike of dread ran through him as he considered that she might regret her brief lapse in self restraint. Finally feeling vindicated, he didn't want her to go and ruin it again.

Comforting others was not something he was particularly experienced in, but he ignored the somewhat alien feeling he felt as he ran his hand up her side in what he hoped was a soothing or reassuring gesture. Physical touch released dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin - it  _should_ work to activate the reward centers of her brain, to remind her that being with him was a good thing.

"Hermione," he said gently, sitting up to pull her closer and nuzzling his face against her throat, "it's alright. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. You don't need to be afraid."

"Stop it." She didn't look up, but her tone was sharp, clipped. The moment of passion was very clearly over.

"Stop what?"

"Patronizing me. Talking to me like I'm a child when I'm both older than you and in a position of authority over you."

"And yet you're sitting in my lap."

Immediately, she began to push herself off, to move, and he tightened his grip to hold her in place. "I didn't say I didn't like it."

She let out an indignant huff and more firmly shoved him away so she could shift off of him and onto the bench beside him. She scooted as far back into the wall as she could. For the sake of peace, he said nothing. Despite her attempts to hide it, her face had flushed with embarrassment. "That's not -" she sputtered, "you know I didn't-"

"I know," he lazily interjected, cutting off her defensive ramblings, "you just wanted a better angle to hit me from. I figured that out on my own, believe it or not."

"Are you expecting an apology?"

"No, but an explanation would be appreciated."

"An  _explanation_? You pinned me to a wall - which is assault, just so we're clear- and you think you're the one who deserves an explanation?" She looked thoroughly scandalized.

"Well," he replied with a slight shrug, "it's not like that's the first time I've done that. So, yes, I'd appreciate it if you explained why this time was different. Also, since we're clarifying the obvious, you just assaulted me as well."

"Just because it wasn't the first time doesn't make it okay. And why it's different? You Confunded and then insulted me. And self defense is not assault!"

"Self defense ends when you've neutralized the threat. And? Are you admitting that it had nothing to do with me, as you put it, pinning you to a wall, and everything to do with the fact that I bruised your appallingly fragile ego?"

Defensively, she crossed her arms over her chest. "No one likes having their head messed with and everyone has things they don't like to be called."

Suddenly curious, he tilted his head. "So that's it, then? You just don't like being called a coward? That's  _really_ all it takes to set you off?"

Her lips pursed like she had suddenly eaten something bitter, but she gave no response.

"So it really wasn't the manhandling, then, was it? Oh, sorry, ' _assault'._ That's  _interesting_."

"Hardly."

"Oh, I think it's definitely fascinating. Does force  _excite_ you,  _Professor_?"

He wasn't sure if it was the somewhat crude question or the use of her title that earned him a glare, but either way it was uniquely gratifying.

An out of place, mischievous looking smirk began to form on her face, replacing the former scowl. "You're not going to like this analogy, but have you ever had a really excitable dog jump on you?"

This time it was his expression that sharpened into a cold glare. "You're right, I most certainly do  _not_ like that analogy."

"You're most comfortable when you feel in control," she continued with a musing tone, completely indifferent to how this was no longer fun for him, "and you panic, or at the very least get unsettled, when you're not. It's a bit irritating -not to mention nerve-wracking- to have you treat me like a marionette, but I don't feel like I'm in genuine danger. Not really. It's a power trip, and if you genuinely harmed me you'd lose your audience. It would be counterproductive."

He stared at her in utter bewilderment. Had she really been psychoanalyzing him this whole time?

A short, almost hysterical sounding laugh erupted from her throat. "What did you think? That I was too weak to even  _try_ to throw you off, had I actually felt threatened? I get paid to teach defense. You can't tell me you honestly think I'm so bad at my job that I can't defend myself if a guy gets a bit too grabby."

"Well, no, but-"

_But what?_

He couldn't even think of a justification. How many times had she lectured him about wandless and nonverbal magic? How many times had she stressed the importance of knowing muggle self defense? More than he could count. It seemed obvious now, sure, but the realization that her knowledge could actually be put into practice against  _himself_ made his pulse race and all of the sudden there was a disconcerting ache under his sternum that he couldn't simply will away.

Mainly because he was now coming to the conclusion that he couldn't just force her to side with him, to  _stay_ , and that, if she wanted to, she could respond with more than just passive refusal and complaining.

His assumption that she wouldn't ever defy him had been ignorance on his part, he understood that now.

In his defense, she had merely caught him off guard, as he had not been trying to truly overpower her. It was more that he simply took advantage of his superior size - if he  _had_ been trying in earnest, he was certain the outcome would have been different. If anything, it was better this way, because now he had personal confirmation that she could defend herself if it became necessary, and that was-

He clenched his jaw. Ignoring the sudden tension in his chest, he looked over to her. Though she had stopped laughing, she was still looking at him with that infuriating smirk.

He wanted to wipe it off.

Or give her mouth something better to do.

He moved towards her again, taking hold of her forearms and pulling her back. Kissing, he had just learned, was not as worthless and unsanitary as he had imagined. That was new. Now he had questions, and what better way to get answers than through thorough experimentation?

"Tom-"

As hands pushed against his collarbone, he realized she was depriving him once again. He nearly growled in discontent, but he stopped. " _What?"_

Her expression softened. "You don't have to do that."

He dropped his head and let out an exaggerated groan. "What on earth are you on about now?"

"You deceive people, and you manipulate them to get what you want, but the, uh, physicality isn't necessary. Not with me. You don't need to do  _that_."

He tried to ignore that she had more or less just implied he was a whore, and instead chalked it up to her self esteem issues.

"And if I want to?" He countered.

"I'm your professor."

Annoyed, but realizing she was actually serious, he resisted the urge to roll his eyes or make any lewd comments about how many people would consider that little tidbit exceedingly attractive.

"I've told you how I feel about that," he said instead.

Her eyes widened very briefly before she regained her composure and righted herself. She cleared her throat. "We shouldn't be here."

"Where should  _we_ be, then?"

" _Not_ conspicuously hiding in an alcove outside Dumbledore's classroom," she said firmly, hand digging around in her pocket until she pulled out a blank piece of parchment. "Certainly, you know how bad this looks, should anyone find us?"

"No one's going to find us. And certainly, you realize you forced my hand?"

Ignoring that remark, she held out her hand and nonverbally summoned her wand from where it has fallen previously. Pressing it to the parchment, she muttered something under her breath and suddenly letters began to form over the formerly blank paper.

Though he leaned in to read them, she unfolded the parchment entirely, revealing inside a detailed map of the school. Moving dots correlated to individuals, with names printed neatly underneath. From what he could tell,  _everyone_ was on there.

"This is incredible," he breathed out as he greedily glanced over the map, "this is absolutely brilliant."

A moment later, "this is how you've been avoiding me.  _This_  is the extent to which you've gone to avoid me? And you don't find this excessive at all?" He stared at her in utter disbelief, unsure if he sound feel flattered or insulted that she went through this much effort.

Flattered, he decided.

"It's not like I made the map," She exclaimed defensively, "I'm just using it. Now, will you sush and let me make sure the coast is clear for us to leave?"

"You didn't make it? Then who did?"

"Some friends of mine."

"You didn't go to Hogwarts."

"Everyone knows someone who went to Hogwarts," she replied vaguely. He remembered the Gryffindor sweater in her room and quickly placed a protective hand on her thigh. "Now, shut up and let me read."

He did not.

"You can just use a Notice-Me-Not Charm," he argued as he continued scanning the parchment. It had nearly every corner of the castle documented, missing only the Room of Requirement and the Chamber of Secrets. He could add that himself, though.

The map, he noticed, only showed dots for people, allowing exact positioning to remain unclear. It was luck that he had been pressed close enough to the wall for the map to have shown him as almost in the hallway. She had probably checked it before coming to find him, and if he had been hidden more firmly within the alcove, she'd have known he was lying. With the way he had been positioned, it probably just looked like he was waiting for her before going in.

He didn't feel guilty about lying. She made him do it.

"Those don't work on portraits," she muttered, finally closing the map. "No one's here. We still can't leave here at the same time. The walls have eyes,  _and_ they report suspicious behavior to the Deputy Headmaster. You're lucky they've never noticed you do anything like this before."

Mentally, he berated himself. He hadn't known that those charms didn't work on portraits - a small, but potentially grave, error on his part.

She interrupted his thoughts. "Go."

"You first," he said because he wanted a reason to argue and prolong the conversation, "I'm the one with a valid excuse to be in here. If anyone sees me leaving it won't be a problem."

Her expression told him that she wanted to counter that, but she didn't. "Fine."

She got up and began to slip back into her shoes. Annoyed that she wasn't arguing back, that she was just leaving,  _again_ , he placed a hand on her hip, halting her. "You'll be in your office."

It technically wasn't a question, but it was. He swallowed.

She grit her teeth. "Tom, you can't do this. You know that."

"Please."

He hadn't meant to say it. It damn near pained him to say that word, because he did not beg. It was one thing to say it in polite conversation, or as a means to an end, but to say it in earnest was humiliating.

Her expression changed. Shifted. He couldn't say if it had softened or hardened. Her head hung for half a second before she took a deep breath and looked up again.

"I'll be in my office."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I generally keep Hermione's thoughts, feelings, and motivations up to interpretation intentionally, but to clarify a few things just in case it wasn't obvious:
> 
> She's "protecting" Tom from Dumbledore not because Dumbledore is evil, but because 1) Tom reminds her of Harry and that experience was traumatizing and 2) she doesn't want Dumbledore putting too much faith in him and giving him power he shouldn't have.
> 
> She's not oblivious to Tom basically seducing her, she just thinks he's manipulating her because she doesn't believe him capable of any genuine attraction.


	13. Sonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sonder: The profound feeling of realizing that everyone, including strangers passed in the street, has a life as complex as one's own, which they are constantly living despite one's personal lack of awareness of it

Tom had been instructed to wait a few minutes before going back to Hermione's office. "A few" could mean just about anything - two, or maybe five, but he assumed she had meant closer to ten because she was paranoid. Though he did his best to be patient, it felt like his entire body was just  _buzzing_ with anticipation, which made it noticeably more difficult. He entertained himself by pressing into the bruises and bites that littered his neck and shoulders. It hurt. A soft, dull ache from each bit of pressure applied by the pads of his fingers.

It was real. The tender soreness was a reminder - proof - that it had been real. Her moans. The feeling of her waist against his hands. It had all been real. Not just a fantasy this time. He hadn't gotten to properly shag her(or even get under her knickers, regrettably), and she kept saying, 'I hate you,' but it had been more perfect than he could have imagined.

Despite being alone, he still discreetly adjusted his robes.

He checked his watch. Four minutes. It had been four minutes, not ten, but he found he could not wait any longer. With an astounding amount of self restraint, he walked back to her office as briskly as he could without drawing attention(being asked why he was running would slow him down, no doubt).

When he reached her office door, he did not hesitate to open it. If she was in there, she would be in there. If she had lied, he'd track her down and do whatever he damn well had to in order to make her stay put.

And lecture her about lying to him, of course.

Much to his relief, she was already there. Just as she said she'd be. She sat at her desk, a stack of essays a mountain high beside her, while she marked each one with a quill dipped in red ink.

She did not look up as he entered. She did not greet him. He approached the desk, but before he could even get within three feet of her, she halted him.

"You can sit on the couch." Her voice was sharp, clipped. Cold.

Arguing or pushing her further would be counterproductive, so he walked over to her shelves, grabbed a book titled  _The Science of the Soul_ (which he was surprised to note he had never read before) and sat down.

There was no sound between them except the flipping of pages, the drip of ink, and the scratch of a quill. Thrilled as he was to be back in her presence, he still wanted more.

"It says here," he stated, "that a soul can not be destroyed once created. That, even if you vanish a human being, make it disappear into non-being, the soul will still remain. How exactly does that work?"

She did not look up from her paper, but she  _did_ , much to his satisfaction, answer. "Their  _body_ is vanished," she explained, "but the soul will continue to exist. Either as a ghost, should they so choose, or by moving on 'into the unknown afterlife.'"

With a nod, he turned back to the book. He always felt supremely pleased when she answered his questions. Peeved when she answered other people's questions, but he didn't hold it against her. It was her job, after all.

Despite the interesting content of the book, he found himself unable to focus on the text. He kept looking over to her, to where she was not looking back at him in return.

"Hermione."

"Hmm?" She did not look up.

"What did you do while you were avoiding me?"

Pausing her grading, she took a deep breath before answering. She still did not look up. "I did what I normally do as a teacher. Teach. Grade. Read."

A beat of silence. Then, he spoke again.

"How did you feel? While I was gone."

Finally, she looked up. "What have I told you about impromptu therapy sessions?"

"That you won't have them with a sixteen year old psychopath," he answered blankly. "I'm seventeen, almost eighteen, actually,  _not_ a psychopath, and this isn't a therapy session."

She propped her elbows on the table and placed her head in her hands. Her hair looked unusually disheveled, even for her. He wondered how much of that was his doing. " _Why?_ "

"Because I want to know. I like knowing what you think and how you feel."

At first she said nothing. Her fingers tightened around the roots of her hair, pulling at her scalp in exasperation. Finally, she spoke.

"I missed you," she murmured, so quietly he nearly missed it. The guilt and the shame in her voice was clear, underlined with a nearly undetectable hint of confusion.

Pride bloomed in his chest.

Upon hearing her confession, he immediately began to sit up, but before he could even fully remove himself from the sofa, she interjected.

"Stay on the couch."

With a small smile, he did as bade.

She was his. Entirely, irrevocably,  _his_.

She did not attempt to make conversation throughout the rest of the evening, only providing short, clipped responses to the many questions he asked. Aside from a few sharp comments about "crying wolf," she acted much like her usual self: paranoid and passive aggressive, yet simultaneously attentive and considerate. It was an odd combination of traits, no doubt, but a mix he had become quite fond of nonetheless.

If she was pointedly not allowing him close enough to touch her, he still considered it an improvement over being ignored.

* * *

The following day, he was growing more and more certain that things must have been returning to relative normality, judging by the state of his returned essay. A perfect grade, but with a section underlined in red ink. It must have been in the pile she went through the previous night, he deduced.

He was certain of this not only because of what she had written on it, but because the week she had been avoiding him, she hadn't even read the work he turned in. This, he knew because he had deliberately misquoted  _Hogwarts: A History_  and still got a perfect grade.

 _You're not technically wrong_ , she wrote,  _but I feel obligated to tell you this is obnoxious._

He snickered as he put the rolled up parchment back into his bookbag.

As class dismissed, Dolohov got up and gave him a questioning glance towards the door. In response, Tom shook his head, signaling that he was staying behind like he usually did.

"I'll see you at dinner, then," said Antonin, dismissing himself.

Tom gathered his bag and approached where Hermione was sitting at her desk, preparing for her next class. "You feel obligated to tell me that my opinion on the Ministry regulation of dark magic is 'obnoxious'?" He questioned, not bothering to hide his amusement. "And yet you admit I'm 'not wrong.'"

She looked up. "You're not  _technically_  wrong, no, but your wording is condescending at best, and any other teacher would have docked points for the bit where you called Aurors 'assassins on a Ministry payroll.' And what was that about how you think they're all a bunch of hypocritical cowards? Honestly, you should know better."

"I do know better," he stressed, finding that her distaste did little to dissuade him. "I would not have told any other teacher that, truly. You really should accept that as the compliment it is. Don't think I haven't noticed that you're agreeing with me."

With a swish of her hand, all the chairs in the room pushed properly into their seats. She gave him a stern look, but it lacked its intended bite. "You're missing the point."

She sat against the edge of her desk, and he pretended not to notice the way she scooted away as he joined her. "I'd argue that you're the one missing the point," he countered.

Though she opened her mouth to retort, whatever reply she had died in her throat as she turned to look at him. He noticed the way her eyes lingered on him for just a second too long before she gave him a stony glare and quickly averted her gaze.

' _Still feeling shy, then',_ he mused, but made no comment. His eyes tracked the movement as her hand raised, perhaps subconsciously, to press her fingertips into the side of her neck.

Bruises, Tom had learned, could not be healed like a cut or burn because of the nature of the wound. A simple  _episkey_ could be cast and heal the injury, but the blood that had been shed underneath the skin would not disappear. It would have to reabsorb and fade on its own or be temporarily glamoured away.

Her throat had been beautifully displayed with her hair pulled back into a plait. The skin was unblemished, showing no traces of the marks left the previous night. But that hand, and the way she pressed against where he knew he had bit down less than gently - he knew she had merely covered them, not healed them. She kept a reminder that could be felt, but not seen.

He knew, because he had done the same.

In a way he hoped went unnoticed, he shifted closer to her. "How are you feeling?"

As she turned to look at him, her face formed an incredulous expression. "Now you're just being obnoxious," she muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Oh, don't act like you don't know exactly what you're doing - looking at me with you angel eyes and fluttery lashes and thinking that if you just look cute and innocent enough I'll forget that you're practically a demon."

Not missing that she had called him cute, he ran his tongue over his teeth before a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

"A demon?" He chuckled. "Been talking to Mrs Cole, have you? And now you think I'm, what - attempting to steal your soul by inquiring about your well-being?"

"It wouldn't shock me," she replied icily.

She met his amused grin with a scowl. He bit back the remainder of his laugher, knowing that the humor in the situation was being entirely unappreciated on her end.

"What's your last class?" He asked as though he did not already know.

"Third years, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff," she answered. "And you have a free period, which you usually spend breaking into my office and snooping around."

"I unlock your door. That hardly qualifies as breaking in."

She rolled her eyes. "You completely unravel my locking charms, is what you do. But since you're going to regardless of what I say, would you mind bringing a few papers back with you?"

Just as he opened his mouth to reply, the door opened and three children wearing blue and bronze walked in, having arrived to class early. Hermione immediately pushed herself off the desk and walked back over to the bookshelves, pretending to be searching for something.

Tom took a deep breath, attempting to calm his sudden irritation. "I wouldn't mind," he replied politely.

After approaching her desk and grabbing a pile of essays, she pushed the aforementioned papers into his arms with the polite, rehearsed smile that he had come to hate.

He grit his teeth and left the classroom.

* * *

He was relieved to see she was back on the Astronomy Tower that night. Usually, he studied in her office until dinner, at which point he left to eat and do whatever mandatory school related business he had(Prefect rounds, Head Boy responsibilities, Slug Club meetings, etc.), and he didn't get to see her again until he would find her reading under the stars in the highest tower of the castle. During the week she had been avoiding him, she hadn't been there. Having checked several times, he was certain of that. Now, however, she was back in her usual spot. Feeling particularly pleased with himself, he took that as a indication of submission on her part.

For once, she did not have a book in her hand.

Rather than pressing herself against either the castle wall or the railing, she had laid back against the stone floor with her knees propped up and her robe rolled up underneath her head. A book, apparently no longer worthy of her attention, rested discarded bedside her.

Her eyes flickered to him in acknowledgement but she made no move to greet him.

Taking his usual place, he found the section of railing closest to where she had sprawled out and sat down with his back to the metal. He said nothing.

Hermione broke the silence. "You're uncharacteristically quiet."

"You're uncharacteristically unoccupied," he retorted.

"I got distracted."

"By what? There's nothing up here. Did a particularly interesting bird fly by? Was there an unusually shaped cloud? Did someone get dragged off into the forbidden forest and eaten by centaurs?"

"Don't be ridiculous; centaurs don't eat people." She tossed him a glare. "I find reading and existential dread to be incompatible," she deadpanned.

He barked out a laugh. "You're an odd one, aren't you?"

For a moment she simply watched him laugh with an expression caught somewhere between intrigue, curiosity, and confusion. Like she couldn't fully comprehend what she was seeing.

As quickly as he had seen it, it was gone.

Lips forming a lopsided frown, her eyes narrowed in his direction. "I hardly think  _you_ are the authority on what's considered normal, thanks."

"It's a compliment, love."

"Calling me 'odd' is not a compliment."

"If the alternative is calling you ordinary, then it most certainly is," he countered. She did not seem amused. "Don't you ever get bored of making everything I say to you a personal attack?"

"What kind of a question is that?" She shot back defensively.

The irony of her response was not lost on him, but he ignored his urge to remark on it. He merely rolled his eyes at her obvious scowl and refrained from pointing out that this little attitude of hers was exactly why the two of them hadn't progressed further in their relationship. "The kind that warrants a response," he drawled, "preferably an honest one."

Pulling herself up into a seated position, she continued to scowl at him. "Do you ever get tired of pretending to care about other people? Does that mask you force yourself into ever start to itch?"

The unnecessary hostility on her part was grating on his nerves. He took a controlled breath. Yelling at her would not fix the problem. Neither would hurting her. He simply needed to show her how ridiculous she was being.

In response, he kept his tone and demeanor as unaffected as possible. "Would you like me to answer that? I'm willing to have an candid exchange with you if you're willing to participate."

"Willing?" She scoffed. "You're not even  _capable_!"

Now she was just sounding like a petulant child.

He kept his eyes locked and level with her own. "Try me."

There was a certain level of pride he was able to take in the uncertainty that formed in her eyes. "I don't owe you anything, Tom," she said coldly. "Just because you want something from me doesn't mean you get to have it."

Despite his attempts to stay calm,  _reasonable since she obviously could not_ , he felt his jaw tick. She was deliberately pushing his buttons.  _Trying_ to make him angry to prove a point. Succeeding, too.

He glanced over to the railing.

If he was remembering correctly, it was approximately a ninety foot drop to the ground. Hermione was afraid of heights - she had mentioned that once. Could that be used to his advantage, he wondered. Use her fear to force honesty out of her, and offer mercy to reinforce an intimate connection.

If given no other option, she would have to trust him, wouldn't she?

He banished the thought, turning back to the witch in front of him. She let out a soft sigh before propping her head up on her hand and giving him a look he couldn't quite decipher - something like disappointment, but with sharper edges. "There's no getting rid of you, is there? There's nothing I can say to convince you that you're not right where you want to be?"

Feigning interest in her book, he moved forward and reached for it. After taking a quick glance at the title -  _The Psychology of Grief_  was, in his mind, an unusual choice - he placed it back down.

"No," he replied firmly, "there's not. I know what I want."

She gave a small, acknowledging nod that seemed to be more to herself than to him. There was an odd beat of silence between them before she broke it.

"You are nothing," she said quietly, with a forced sense of calm, "but an angry, scared,  _sick_ little boy. And no matter how many people you hurt, no matter how many lives you ruin, you will never be anything but that. You could be, but you won't. Because you have no desire to. You're just going to sit in your bed at night with the knowledge that you're the best, and the worst, and that you always will be, because you are mad and foolish enough to truly believe that's the only life worth living."

His initial response was nothing but a cold, analytical stare. She was wrong, of course. This was not the first time in his life that he had been called mad. Even as a child, he understood that it was just the interpretation of people too stupid to comprehend his superiority. Hermione, though, he had expected better of.

He tilted his head. "Are you under the impression that if you repeat that to yourself enough, you'll eventually begin to believe it?"

"I hate you," she childishly retorted.

"I thought we had already verbally established and agreed upon our friendship."

"You hate all your friends. Is there a reason I can't do the same?"

Her tone was flat. He imagined that if she had meant it, truly, that she'd have cried, or perhaps spit the words with fury and venom. Nearly rolling his eyes, he thought better of it.

' _Not all of them,'_ he thought.

Instead, his lips formed a taunting grin. "Do you often find yourself kissing the men you claim to hate?"

"Only occasionally," she replied dryly. Not having expected that response, he nearly flinched. It was once, so far. That could hardly be considered 'occasionally'. "When they're kissing me, I hardly have a choice."

"Don't act like you weren't an eager participant," he snapped with more coldness than was necessary, "victimhood doesn't suit you."

"You're deluded."

His jaw clenched with a flash of sudden irritation. This was going nowhere. They were just talking in circles - arguing and then arguing back.

"Stop lying."

The command was less than subtle. His voice came out harsh and restrained, the tone much lower and colder than anything he typically used with her. His shoulders straightened slightly as his eyes fixed into a harsh glare.

In the orphanage, other children(and even much of the staff) had come to fear any expression of anger that crossed his features. Since he started school, he was no longer able to openly torment those who displeased him, but the few who had seen that same look often found it intimidating enough that it seemed he hadn't need to.

Hermione, on the other hand, seemed to perk up. Her eyes brightened at the sight of seeing her own frustration now reflected in him. The corner of her lips quirked into something resembling a smirk of misplaced self satisfaction.

She looked almost triumphant.

It was unnerving, Tom thought.

Though he felt his hand practically itch to grab his wand, he refrained. She wanted to be proven right and he would not give her that. He consciously relaxed his tense jaw and took a deep, hopefully subtle breath through his nose.

He looked up to face her again. Her head had tilted and her eyes glinted with uncertainty. The smirk had dropped, much to his delight.

"No," he replied with the ease of a man discussing the weather, "you don't hate me. You don't. You may wish you did, because it would be easier, and you may try to, but you don't."

She didn't deny it. She didn't confirm it either, but the way her hands fisted around the fabric of her robe until her knuckles turned white and the anxious swallow she gave may as well have been a confession.

"You're acting different towards me," he started. After receiving no response, he decided to break the ice with another question. "You're not usually this hostile. What's wrong?"

"Are you seriously asking me that?" She asked incredulously.

"Yes. I want you to tell me, explicitly, everything that is upsetting you. And then I'm going to fix it, and for once in your life you're going to relax. What will it take for you to see that I'm not your enemy here?"

"You've killed four people," she deadpanned, "you've maimed your own friends. You can't just 'fix' that, Tom! And I know, trust me,  _I know_ that I can't stop you from doing whatever you want, but why on earth do you have to keep involving me?"

As she kept talking, her voice kept rising, steadily becoming more and more shrill. "I don't want to join your cult, or be your pet mudblood, or be your audience while you become the darkest wizard in history! You won't let me distance myself from you, you won't accept the word 'no' - what the bloody hell am I supposed to do?"

Folding his arms over his chest, he arched a brow. "Is that all?"

"Kissing me was uncalled for." She spat it out like it was a bitter afterthought, but he knew better.

' _And there it is'_ , he mused to himself. Finally, she was showing a sliver of honesty.

It was never his wickedness that pushed her away. From the very beginning, she had known he was different, that he did not allow himself to be held back by anything. Even as a child, she had been able to accurately clock him as a killer. As  _destined_ for greatness. And yet, she stayed close because she liked to watch. Fearful, cautious, and performatively repulsed as she may be, she could not help her fascination. He understood that about her - in so many ways, they were so much alike.

It was never his wickedness that pushed her away - it was fear of her own. She was afraid that it said something about her to be intrigued by the darkness of the world. To have such a morbid curiosity. To be having these types of feelings towards someone who was both her student and, in her mind, a monster.

It did, of course. Because it was him, and he was not something as simple or as common as just a student or a murderer, it said she had good taste. Still, it was definitely a sore spot for her.

"Was it really?" He asked dryly.

"Yes."

"Are you waiting for another kiss or an apology?" It was unwise, he knew, to be teasing her instead of persuading her, but he rather liked the way it made her bristle. If she was this determined to argue, he may as well amuse himself until it resolved. "I know I certainly have a preference, a rather strong one, in fact - Do you?"

Heat rose to her face, coloring her cheeks with a furious blush. Her eyes widened. For a second she just looked stunned by his nerve until finally, she collected herself and she spoke.

"I don't have to tolerate this," she said with a calm, authoritative tone that he did not think suited her one bit. "I may not have a choice with you bloody stalking me, but I'm not going to sit here and let you mock me."

Though another smart remark was on the tip of his tongue, it swallowed down and died in his throat as he saw her collect her book and get up to leave.

Immediately, he jumped to his feet as well. "Hermione," he protested, "wait. Don't." He placed a hand on her shoulder. Though it could have been seen as a reassuring gesture, the way his fingers dug into her flesh proved its true nature.

As soon as he touched her, she froze. Her breath hitched. "Stay," he murmured. "I - I don't want you to leave yet. I missed you."

"And you don't see that as a problem?" She stared at his hand on her shoulder like it were some sort of trap that had caught her in its teeth. Very slowly, her gaze followed back up to where it finally rested on his face.

He frowned. "Having you close would rid me of the problem entirely. Missing you may be problematic, but keeping you is the solution."

Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not a pet," she answered coldly. "You don't just get to decide to 'keep' me. I decide for myself where I want to go or who I want to be with."

"You'll pick me," he answered immediately, without thought. The grip he held on her tightened. "You want me. I know you do. You even said yourself that you missed me too. But I'll make sure, just in case. I'll make you want me so bad that you'll  _beg me_ to keep you."

Prying his hand off her shoulder, she discarded his hold on her. She pursed her lips and shook her head. "Goodnight, Tom."

Though he felt an urge to follow her, to push and prod and continue arguing until she was sick of it and gave in, his feet stayed firmly planted.

* * *

Wednesday morning, a package was dropped off directly in front of Tom at the breakfast table. Having never received anything by owl post other than his school lists and badges, he eyed the package with both intrigue and confusion. As he checked the wrapping, he found the words 'Flourish and Blotts' and very quickly understood.

With a glance to the Head table, he saw Dumbledore send him a nod. The Professor  _had_ told him he'd be ordering the book needed for his project for him, though Tom had assumed it would be delivered to the school(or at least Dumbledore) rather than to himself personally.

Still, he did not complain. Any excuse to avoid the old coot was valid.

Vanishing the packaging, he tucked the book safely away in his bag while he ate. The boys around him chatted amongst themselves.

About ten minutes later, Malfoy and Lestrange both excused themselves for early morning Quidditch practice, leaving Tom and Antonin the only seventh years left in their section of the table.

"So," Tony said conversationally between sips of pumpkin juice, "I take everything it is  _normal_  between you and Granger again?"

"Any particular reason you're asking?"

"She didn't flee from the classroom as soon as the period ended yesterday. That, and you seem significantly calmer than you did last week - you actually came to breakfast with us, you didn't hex Mulciber for accidentally spilling his water on you, and you're no longer gritting your teeth when you look at the Heads table. Also, the charm on your neck needs to be reapplied," Dolohov answered casually as he reached for his fork again. "I suppose you have gotten that from another girl, but I find that unlikely. Last week I saw you turn around and walk the other way when you noticed Parkinson coming towards you. Last year, you pointedly switched projects in potions and decided to work on a Bone Regrowth elixir, even though the fumes make you sick, because it was a group project and that was the only group that didn't have any girls in it. And then there was that time in fifth year, where you-"

"Are you sure it's wise to confess you've been watching me?" Tom interrupted. In a way he hoped went unnoticed, he tilted his wand towards his own throat and discreetly reapplied the glamour before continuing to glare at Dolohov.

(It was not, Tom mentally explained, that he had any sort of fear or general dislike of the fairer sex. It was simply that they were so bloody distracting - not in their looks, no matter how pretty they may be - but that they always wanted something from him. He did not like to be interrupted while studying by girls fawning all over him. He did not like to have his time wasted by having to reject Hogsmeade invitations. Though he was not above using a sweet smile and a bit of boyish charm if he was in need of something, it was simply easiest to avoid them.)

The other boy seemed completely impervious to his annoyance.

"I'm a Slytherin," Dolohov replied with a shrug, "observation and resourcefulness are key to success, particularly in social situations where norms and customs vary. You make it sound like I'm spying."

" _You_ are the one who makes it sound like you're spying." Tom glanced down at his wristwatch before quickly dismissing himself from the table.

He still had an hour before Transfiguration, and this was not how he wanted to spend it.

Much as he valued the Slytherin ideals, his classmates could really get on his nerves. Ambition and resourcefulness were traits he valued in himself and very select others - in his opposition, he loathed them.

* * *

Tom entered his first class of the day just as the bell rang out. Though he wasn't late, he still saw that many of his classmates had already pulled out their work and started scribbling down notes.

For Transfiguration, the period was again going to be wasted doing nothing more than reading through books and beginning to form presentations on their assigned subjects. Tom took his usual seat in the back of the room and pulled  _The Ageless Mysteries of Time_ out of his bag. As he began to open the book, he noticed Dumbledore's eyes meeting his own, and he swore he saw that maddening twinkle gleam a bit brighter with, well -  _something_. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he knew something was off about the situation.

Paranoid as she was, he could not help but be reminded of what Hermione said, and his own subsequent promise to be careful.

After mentally cataloguing the placement of his wand(right sleeve, in holster), he leaned back into his chair and resolutely ignored the man.

Only getting about three pages into the book, he still came to the conclusion that the librarian had been right: the author was a madman and it was a load of rubbish. The book was a waste of time, money, ink, and paper that never deserved to have been in the Hogwarts library in the first place. The science of time was only briefly mentioned to explain the real message of the book, which was little more than the ramblings of a lunatic. Cornelius Warren went on and on about how he was just  _sure_ that seemingly random individuals throughout history were time travelers, with no solid evidence to support his wild claims.

Usually, the people he had singled out had inconspicuous jobs like secretaries, were close to notable figures in history(politicians, inventors, etc.), had little known about their early lives(probably because they were just  _normal people_ , and no one cared enough to document it), and more often than not disappeared. They'd either quit a job, move away, and never be heard from again, or they'd simply vanish.

It described the workings of the theory of time, and how many of these "disappearances" were possibly time travelers either returning to their own time, or the product of a paradox resulting in an 'unbirth'.

In Tom's opinion, it was all utter shite. Someone has to take the tedious jobs for high ranking politicians and innovators - it doesn't mean that those people are in on some conspiracy theory. Sometimes people disappear by choice and don't want to be found, and that doesn't have to have anything to do with time travel.

' _Also',_ he mentally added, ' _sometimes they get murdered and the body is never discovered. That's not the result of a paradox either.'_

He flipped back to the table of contents, curious to see if there was anything he'd find less annoying than the current chapter, and for a moment briefly glanced up.

Dumbledore was staring at him.

Okay, maybe not  _staring_ , but looking at him in a way he was less than comfortable with. There was that damn twinkle in his eye again, too, and-

Without any warning, a piercing, intense pain filled his skull, radiating from behind his eyes. He let out a sharp hiss of pain as his hand reflexively reached up to grab at his head.

It hurt - ached. He felt perfectly fine one second and then the next it felt like someone had cracked open and rummaged through his skull.

As Dumbledore approached his desk, Tom used every bit of his self restraint to hide his unease. His head still throbbed, but he did his best to ignore it for the time being.

"Feeling alright, Tom?" Asked the Professor.

"Yes, sorry sir. Just a bit of a headache, I'm afraid." In an attempt to look genuine that he knew would go unappreciated, he smiled softly.

The old man frowned. "Headache, is it? Perhaps you ought to get away from the light and noise for a bit. As Head Boy, I'm sure you can be trusted to continue studying should I allow you to return to your dormitory."

Tom, still feeling uneasy, shook his head. The unusual suggestion that he go to his dormitory rather than the infirmary(where one typically goes when in need of medical assistance) was not lost on him. "That's a very generous offer, sir, and I appreciate it, but it's unnecessary. It's only a slight inconvenience; I can remain in class."

Dumbledore gave him a knowing smile. "Do not believe the lie that suffering builds character, Tom. There's no need to endure through it when I'm sure you'd be much more productive and comfortable elsewhere."

Realizing there was no way out of this, and feeling surprisingly ungrateful for the opportunity to escape, Tom nodded. "I suppose, if you insist, sir."

"I do." Dumbledore motioned towards the door with one hand. "Off you go."

Tom did not need to be told twice.

* * *

Back in the solitude of his room, Tom pulled out the book again and gave it an odd glance. Dumbledore wanted him to read it. He said he was  _trusting_ him to read it.

That alone was reason enough for him to not want to do it.

And yet, his curiosity could not be helped. Why this specific book? Why did Dumbledore want  _him_  to read it, rather than someone - anyone - else? Unfortunately, he would not know unless he opened it up and actually read it like he was told to.

With a groan, he reopened it to the Table of Contents and looked for a more interesting chapter. With class not even half over, he did have time to read more thoroughly, but for now he didn't want to read rubbish again. Not unless he truly had no other choice.

Unfortunately for him, the entire book was rubbish - stark raving mad, barely coherent rubbish. So he settled for opening to a chapter that, at the very least, looked less boring than conspiracy theories about insignificant people throughout history.

_Chapter Fifteen: Distinctions of a Time Traveler_

At least with that chapter, he could create his own idiotic conspiracy theories rather than have to listen to someone else's.

He began to read.

' _Solitary individuals who avoid attention'_

He read through the paragraph below it, describing the reasoning as to why time travelers would feel the need to keep to themselves - legal consequences, societal stigma and social hassle(everyone wants to know how they're going to die, certainly - Tom nearly rolled his eyes), an attachment to their own timeline, a desire to prevent any changes in descendents, etc.

That reasoning, he admitted, was sound. While it was obviously insane to assume all solitary individuals were time travelers - just because it has four legs, doesn't mean it's a cat - he supposed it would be logical for time travelers to be isolative in nature, assuming they existed in the first place.

' _Significant, but limited, relationships'_

Of the people he listed as suspected time travelers, they all lived unusually empty lives with a few notable exceptions. Claudia Hewitt, for example, was a woman Warren had accused of time travel. She was an orphan no known friends, and lived a private, quiet life with the exception of her affair with the French Minister for Magic back in the early 1800's. He was assassinated shortly after beginning a new campaign, and she seemed to fall off the radar after his funeral. No culprit was ever found, but it did become public knowledge that he had been planning to declare war(...And that she had been trying to persuade him not to).

Again, Tom agreed that,  _in theory_ , this was a trait that would be fitting of a time traveler. Still, it was too vague. It could apply to almost any shy or introverted individual. He could think of a dozen social outcasts who had latched onto more popular individuals like leeches.

Beyond that, some people simply didn't wish to waste their time on meaningless socialization - Hermione, for example, had no friends or noteworthy relationships other than himself and(if you were to use the term 'relationship' loosely enough) Dumbledore, and perhaps Slughorn.

It was no proper indication of a conspiracy.

' _Any evidence of previous life exists only through a paper trail and word of mouth.'_

This section went on to describe how time travelers may have degrees, school records, and stories about their lives, but no witnesses to testify that it were true. They may have people who parrot the lies for them(" _oh, he went to Durmstrung - he told me so!"_ ) to create a publicly accepted image, but of those who knew them, no one was present during their upbringing. It went on to give an example of how about two decades ago, a Ministry worker disappeared. When his wife rushed in, claiming the children were gone as well and the Ministry simply  _must_ investigate, it had been discovered that his records - all of them - were fake. A fake birth certificate, fake school diploma, and fake OWL and NEWT scores.

This was much more suspicious, he admitted, though still not evidence of time travel. This man would hardly have been the first to assume a fake identity. And with people raised in the muggle world especially, it really should be expected that no one would be around to testify of their childhood - muggles don't enter the wizarding world. Theoretically, it would apply to homeschooled people as well since they would have been inherently more isolated than the average school-going child. Hermione, for example-

He stopped on that thought  _-_ hadn't he compared the last one to Hermione as well?

It most likely was just coincidence. Or that since Hermione had come to be a significant part of his life, making mental connections to her was something that his mind did with little prompting.

He narrowed his eyes towards the page, but kept reading.

' _An uncanny knowledge of subjects they haven't formally studied or events they were not present for'_

The book went on to describe two examples - a young potioneer who just so happened to know additional uses of mermaid's tears before it was formally discovered two decades later, and a journalist who was known to publish articles about events only minutes after they happened with alarming detail, despite not having attended them. Those could both be explained logically - perhaps the potioneer simply knew more than she ever sought to seek credit for(despite the leading statement, she had in fact studied magical potion ingredients, thus making her a poor example on the author's part), or that the author of the paper publishing the additional uses had copied her former work. The journalist could have had informants or used spycharms. Suspicious, sure - but there could be lots of explanations for such knowledge.

He mind again flickered back to Hermione.  _Hermione_ , who had spoken of magic in ways he had never heard even textbooks describe.  _Hermione_ , who somehow knew of his ancestry and had tied it to the opening of the Chamber of Secrets.  _Hermione,_ who somehow knew he had killed his father despite the Ministry never making the case against Morfin public knowledge, and Little Hangleton not being a big enough city to easily attract that type of attention.

It was admittedly worrisome, but he refused to let it bother him. He wasn't mad enough to truly believe any of this was connected. He turned the page and read the last criteria that Hector Cornelius Warren had used to 'identify' time travelers.

' _Unexplained disappearances following major events'_

Upon reading that, a gnawing pit formed in his stomach. It was irrational, he knew, to be so concerned about this. He was reading the ramblings of a madman and attempting to make sense where there was none.

Still, he could not help but feel a sense of anxiety as he continued reading. The book was firm in its theory - these people did not just skip town or run away, they vanished into nonbeing as the result of a paradox, or traveled back to their own time. They could not be found because there was nothing to find. They were not missing, they were gone.

Mentally, he dug through everything he knew of Hermione. Every conversation they had had. Every time he had heard the other teachers mention her. The way the bloody Room of Requirement had shown him a bizarre range of devices used to tell time, and how they had, of course  _reversed_ right in front of him. The conversation he had overheard with Dumbledore, which he now viewed in an entirely new and incriminating light. Dumbledore's less than subtle insistence that  _he_ be the one to read this book, combined with the comment that he would find the book had more value than could be understood by most.

(The idea that Dumbledore not only knew of this secret, been trusted with it when he had not, and then felt fit to taunt him with the knowledge by hanging it over his head was unbearable to think about.)

His hands began to shake.

It sounded completely mad. It made sense, it all fit, but it sounded completely, undeniably, and unequivocally insane.

If,  _if,_ this theory held any merit, and  _if_ it could be applied to Hermione at all, he needed to know. He needed to know and be sure, no matter how small and unlikely the chance, because he adamantly refused to allow her to leave for her time, or worse, vanish - to  _die_ and deprive himself of her presence.

He checked his watch.

There were ten minutes left before classes would dismiss, and then he'd have another fifteen minutes to get to potions, assuming he wanted to go at all. At the moment, he was feeling like he didn't.

He felt nauseous.

Closing the book, he tossed it onto the desk across the room. Having irrationally blamed it for his troubles, he did not allow it to stay in his bed or in his bag with his other books.

He entered the bathroom and turned on the sink. Repeatedly, he told himself to think  _clearly_ , think  _rationally_ , and to think  _logically_  as he splashed cold water over his face.

Turning the faucet off, he reached for a towel and patted his face dry. He was extremely alarmed to discover that it still made sense.

He checked his watch again. Eight minutes. That was enough time for a cigarette, he decided as he pulled the packet out of his bag and shoved it into his pocket.

* * *

Usually, Tom found smoking to be calming. A habit that he picked up a few summers before, he generally appreciated the opportunity to step back from his personal hell and recollect himself. In this instance, it had precisely the opposite effect. Being left alone with his thoughts as they began to spiral only made him feel worse.

The nausea came back. He felt his hands twitch and shake beyond his control. He could feel his pulse race and hear the sound of blood rushing in his ears. As he wandered the halls, every single noise felt deafening. With each portrait passed, he felt an urge to pull his wand and set them all alight.

Just as he contemplated actually doing it(if he burned them  _all_ , quickly enough, there would be no witnesses), classes dismissed and the halls flooded with students scrambling to get to their next class on time. He grit his teeth and kept walking.

He didn't even realize where he was going until he had reached her classroom door.

Without further thought, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

As he entered, she looked up from her desk. Immediately, her brows furrowed. "Tom?"

Standing still, he said nothing. He had no excuse to be here, and no real reason for it. He hadn't exactly come here by any conscious decision, he would later note. It more or less just happened.

He nearly turned around, but then she walked away from the desk and approached him. Her lips and curled into a very noticeable frown. "What happened? What's wrong?"

He tensed his jaw. There wasn't anything he could say that wouldn't sound barking mad, and he didn't exactly have the time to explain himself at the moment. "I'm not feeling well," he said quickly, attempting to smooth over the situation. He cleared his throat. "I'll just be onto the infirmary - I must have lost my way as I walked. Quite silly of me; I apologize."

She took a step forward, looking him up and down. "No," she said, face very obviously burdened with a look of concern. She pulled her wand from her pocket, then flicked it towards the door. The distinct sound of a lock was heard. "No, you never put on that act for me. Now I'm certain something's not right." She sounded almost frantic, but he hardly noticed. "It's alright, just - just sit down."

For once, he did not argue. Pulling out a chair, he sat down with an expectant expression.

That expression quickly turned to one of surprise when she stepped forward and immediately began to loosen the knot of his tie. " _What in Merlin's name are you doing_?" He exclaimed.

"Relax," she ordered, "your tie is very pretty, but it's easy to feel constricted when you have a fashionable noose around your neck."

She pulled at the knot completely, leaving it entirely undone as it hung unevenly from his both sides of throat. Then, she undid just the top button of his shirt.

At the brief contract of her fingers against the skin of his chest, he closed his eyes for only a moment. Not even a second later, she pulled away.

"Now," she said, pulling out a chair and sitting directly in front of him, "what are the three primary ingredients in Polyjuice Potion?"

His eyes flashed in irritation. "What?"

"What," she repeated, "are the three primary ingredients in Polyjuice Potion? Tell me. Now."

"Lacewing flies, Fluxweed, and shredded boomslang skin," he answered immediately.

"And if you wish to dilute it," she asked with misplaced urgency, "how would you go about doing that?"

He blinked. "By substituting the leeches with mosquitoes, and adding dragon's blood to the initial mixture."

She smiled. "Good. How long does a Draught of Living Death affect the drinker?"

Leaning forward, suddenly attentive, he answered, "until the antidote has been administered."

"Correct," she nodded. "Now, inhale for seven seconds."

"What? Why?"

"Stop questioning me and do as I say."

Though he felt a reflexive urge to be difficult and disobey, he complied. It's not like he could just stop breathing, after all. At the seventh count, he looked at her.

"Hold it for another seven seconds, then exhale for the same count. Repeat it."

Again, he followed her directions. Seven seconds in, seven seconds holding, seven seconds out, seven second pause. After the second cycle, he noticed that his hands had stopped shaking. Immediately he understood the reason for the irrelevant pop quiz and bizarre instructions, even if he didn't fully understand the process.

"What did you do?" He asked, still mentally keeping track of his breathing.

"You were nervous," she answered calmly. "I diverted your attention from that anxiety so that you stopped psyching yourself up by ruminating. The regulated breathing calmed your autonomic nervous system."

Moving forward, she rebuttoned the top of his shirt and knotted the tie back in place. She smoothed it down before leaning back to scrutinize her work from a distance. While he generally liked to bask in her attention, he was again reminded of why he was here in the first place, and it was not simply for her company.

This was a problem. Regardless of whether or not his suspicions had merit, the uncertainty in and of itself could not be tolerated and would cause complications if he did not get rid of it, one way or another.

The problem within the problem was that, in order to solve the problem in the first place, he would have to address the elephant in the room. That was something he most certainly could not do - not now when his time was limited, and not without sounding like he needed to be shipped off to Mungo's.

He noted with no small amount of irony that  _time_ was what he needed - time to think, time to research, time to play his cards right.

"Tom," Hermione's voice pulled him from his thoughts, "what's wrong?"

He swallowed. He wet his lips. "Dolohov annoyed me," he answered. Though it was not a lie, it was not the truth either.

With a soft smile, she shook her head. "Everyone annoys you. You're lying."

He averted his gaze and said nothing. He knew it only added to his appearance of guilt, it hardly mattered.

"You can tell me," she coaxed, leaning forward again.

Her voice was annoying him. Usually, he quite liked to listen to her talk, liked having her full attention, but now he found himself angered that she would have the audacity to ask information from him when she met all his personal inquiries with paranoia and evasion. He was exceptional, certainly, but there was a limit to how much patience any man had.

"I'm just trying to-"

"Who are you?" He irritably cut her off. "Can you just answer that for me? Honestly. Have I not earned that from you?"

As she swallowed nervously, her eyes flickered back and forth between his own like she was trying to figure out what had brought on the sudden question. He wouldn't tell her. Not unless she gave him suitable reason to.

"I'm your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," she finally answered calmly.

"Don't give me that," he sneered. "You know what I'm asking."

He did not at all like the way she looked at him then. Too hard and too soft in all the wrong ways, she looked at him like she couldn't decide if he was a threat, or if she pitied him. Neither was appropriate for the situation.

"I'm also your friend," she said quietly. "And I'm trying to help you."

"You can help me by-"

Much to his surprise, she cut him off not by attempting to speak over him, but by pushing herself forward and using her hand to cover his mouth. The blazing look he gave did nothing to halt her.

"Tom, there are seven minutes left until class starts. That means two minutes before students start filing in here, meaning I have to unlock the door or they will ask questions about why you and I were locked alone in my classroom. And one minute before Horace starts fretting over you and sends one of his less favored students to come find you. Now is  _not_ the time to attempt an interrogation."

He wrapped his hand tightly around her wrist. Tight enough to bruise, no doubt. She did not flinch or attempt to remove it from where it was. For a moment, it was quiet as their battle of wills morphed into a staring contest.

Despite his stubborn refusal to say it out loud, he knew she was right. There was nothing to be gained from attempting to argue with her now. He was ill prepared, stretched for time, and in much too public a setting to continue this conversation in earnest.

Still, even if he would have otherwise been willing to admit that she was right, the way she spoke to him like he was a kneazle she had to hold back by the scruff of its neck pissed him off. It was condescending. It was uncalled for.

It did not change that she was right, and he felt the need to punish her for it.

Loosening his grip, he slid his hand past her wrist until it met the tips of her fingers. He pulled them into his hand and brought them to his lips in a parody of the chivalrous gesture. His eyes never left her own. As soon as his lips made contact with the skin of her knuckles, she shivered. It was subtle, but it did not escape his notice. A second later, color rose to her cheeks. Though he did his best to bite back his amusement, she must have seen it somehow, because in the next she ripped back her hand and used it to swat at his shoulder.

" _Stop that_ ," she hissed. "You are not doing this when anyone could walk in and see you."

"When, then?"

The question could have been seen as flirtatious, but they both knew better. He was asking for confirmation that this was not over, that the conversation would be continued later.

She ran her hand over her face. "Later. Not now."

"How conveniently nonspecific."

" _Tom_ ," her voice was just barely above a whine, "please. Later."

He ran his tongue along his teeth. That was still not a confirmation, and he shouldn't accept it as good enough, but she had said please. She was  _begging_ him to let it go. It was in his power to offer her mercy, to allow trust to build.

He forced his muscles to relax as he gave her a solemn look. "I'll hold you to that."

With five minutes left before class, he unlocked the door himself on the way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things here:
> 
> \- I know this took longer than usual to update, but please understand that I'm doing this in my free time and when I don't have time, I don't have time.
> 
> \- Last time, some readers appreciated the little explanations I added about Hermione's behavior. Again, no spoilers, but I want to justify my chatacterization of her here. A Hermione that handles her emotions in a healthy, assertive, productive way is OOC, and you can fight me on that. As much as she lectures Ron and Harry about their emotions, she handles her own by either being passive aggressive or wallowing in self pity. As annoying as I find that, writing her any other way just felt too OOC for me. Her hot and cold attitude towards Tom here is due to her internal struggle about being angry with herself for liking him, and also feeling responsible for him as her student.


	14. Adronitis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adronitis  
> n. frustration with how long it takes to get to know someone

After his last period of the day, Tom waited [somewhat] patiently for Hermione to arrive back at her office.

'Later,' she had said. Well, after her last class certainly would be later. They'd be alone, and he had had the remainder of the day to ponder extactly how to go about this.

With careful consideration, he had come to the conclusion that a standard interrogation, as he had initially planned, would not be as effective as one would expect and could potentially drive her away again. Aside from that, it would be impractical to attempt - he had no time to brew Veritaserum, he knew she had lied under the influence of the Cruciatus before, she was much too strong willed for an Imperius to hold(not to mention that even if it did, it's best not to make the those under that particular curse talk without a script; they'd often babble incoherently or make it otherwise painfully obvious that they'd been bewitched. Best to stick to actions alone), he did not trust his still developing Legilimency against her trained Occlumency, and having her mad at him was decidedly unpleasant.

For all those reasons, a true interrogation would have to be a last resort.

Her ability to withhold information was equally as admirable as it was infuriating.

However, he was still confident in his abilities to weedle information as needed. He wasn't a Slytherin for nothing.

So when it was ten minutes past classes and she opened her office door, he casually motioned for her to join him where he sat on her couch. He had been patient. He had waited. Now, it was his time to finally coax something useful out of her.

She cast him a brief glance before firmly replying, "No," and confidently striding over to her desk.

" _No?_ What do you mean 'no'? You said-"

"I said," she cut him off with that haughty, stuck up tone she used  _far_ too often, "that attempting an interrogation in the middle of the day in my public, frequently occupied classroom was a bad idea."

Outraged by her refusal, he didn't bother to correct her about how he no longer planned to interrogate her. "You said, 'later.' It's later. Now."

"I said you would need to attempt it later, I never said I'd cooperate."

"And  _I_ ," he retorted sharply, "said I'd hold to that. I am.  _Now sit down._ "

Just as she reached for a small, dragon hide bookbag that she had under her desk, she halted. Whipping around furiously, she asked, "Are you incapable of listening? Have you suddenly lost the ability to comprehend English? I said no, and as it just so happens, I have plans."

"No, you most certainly  _do not._ "

She set the bag down on the desk. Her hands visibly tensed into fists.

"I'm only going to say this once," she said, letting out a shaky breath. "Just as I know I cannot control you, you need to learn that you cannot control me either. I do not care what you tell me to do. You do not get to decide where I go, or what I do, or who I talk to, or when, or  _anything_  about my life. I'm going to do as I please, regardless of how you feel about it. And right now, I want to leave. There is nothing short of cold blooded murder that you can do to stop me from doing so. So, what's it going to be?"

Leaning against the desk, she cocked her head. He felt himself somewhat taken aback by the open boldness of the statement. There was no way in bloody hell she was serious.

Mentally, Tom began to process all his available options. A body-bind curse could be very easily blocked, or she'd simply dispel it if it did hit. Earlier, he had ruled out attempting to use the Imperius Curse and he had not changed his mind - it would be inefficient. Though he could attempt to physically restrain her, he knew she would not take it lying down and he did not fancy getting kneed in the groin again. Murder, was, of course, out of the question. At least for her.

Not having any other retort, he scoffed. "Bit dramatic, aren't you?"

"Right then," she said, once again grabbing her bag, "glad we could get that cleared up."

As she moved for the door, he jumped to his feet. "You admit you can't control me," he explained quickly at her exasperated groan, "so you admit you can't stop me from following you."

For just a second, she halted. Her hand stayed on the doorknob as she considered his response.

"Fine," she said coldly before practically stomping down the hallway.

Only a pace behind her, he didn't bother to bite back his smirk.

* * *

"What year did you graduate?" He asked with as much cordiality as he could muster, even pretending to check his fingernails.

When she had said she had plans, Tom assumed she meant an appointment, or perhaps she just fancied a weeknight trip to Hogsmeade. Evidently, his assumptions were incorrect.

Hermione looked up from where she stood, awkwardly bent over a mutilated piece of boomslang skin. Rather than Diagon Alley, or the Three Broomsticks, or any of the usual places people went when they 'had plans,' Hermione had chosen to lead him to Slughorn's empty classroom, which she was borrowing for her own experimentation. In one hand, she held her wand. Scattered in front of her were different bits of parchment, littered with notes, runes, and messily scratched questions. Placed on her right, the silver knife he had found in her nightstand.

After inquiring about what in Merlin's name she was doing, he discovered that the knife was cursed. While he definitely would have appreciated knowing that  _before_ he had picked it up, he did not tell her this because it would reveal that he had figured out how to get into her private room and he didn't want her to go changing the locks(metaphorically speaking). Thankfully, it wasn't the type of curse that could affect with just a simple touch.

She frowned. "What?"

"I said, 'what year did you graduate?'"

"I'm twenty-four. I know you haven't taken a math class since you were eleven, but I trust in your ability to calculate that for yourself. Regardless, how exactly is that relevant?"

This time he frowned, meeting her refusal to give him a straightforward answer with irritation and further suspicion. "It's not," he answered, "I'm just curious. Is that a problem?"

Her eyes narrowed. A moment later, she asked, "Why?" Without dropping her wand, she straightened her back and crossed her arms over her chest. She fiddled with her sleeves again as she spoke. "What reason do you have to be curious about me?"

"Well," he started, taking note of her irrational defensiveness and thinking to himself that she should be less conspicuous if she really wanted to stay under the radar, "you are a fascinating individual with an uncanny knowledge of my life, and are currently standing in front of me. Is that not good reason intrigued?"

"No," she sniffed. "I don't want your interest."

"Too late for that now, but you could try being less interesting. Not that it would work, of course, but if you want to expend the effort regardless, who am I to stop you?"

She opened her mouth, then quickly shut it before she could speak. The muscles in her jaw began to tense, and her fingers briefly tapped at her wand. As though thinking better of it, she turned back to her work, muttering under her breath, " _I'd ask who raised you to be such a menace, but we both know better_."

Rolling his eyes, he put his own book down and approached the desk she was working at. Moving her wand in a precise, methodical manner over the boomslang skin, she whispered an incantation he didn't quite catch.

The lacerations of the skin very quickly began to glow, but then nothing happened. A look of frustration very briefly flashed over her face before she took a controlled breath and managed to restrain her irritation.

"What are you doing?" Though it was the same question he had asked when he first entered this classroom, he now expected a more precise answer.

Reaching over to scribble yet another rune out on the parchment, she didn't look up. "Breaking a curse only prevents the cursed item from causing future harm, it does not-"

"Negate any damage done previously," he cut her off, "and you're trying to figure out how to reverse the effects of the curse on that knife. Yes, you told me. But what are you doing  _now_? Explain the process."

Though not seeming to appreciate the command, she did as bade. "That," she gestured to the knife, "works by taking the users magical signature and forcing it into the wound it creates, causing long term pain and resistance to healing. It's almost like a magical infection. What I'm trying to do now is use the runes to identify, latch onto, and then lift -  _remove_  - the embedded magic."

The concept, in theory, was simple. Though he had very quickly learned that just because something can be easily understood, does not necessarily mean it is easily accomplished - immortality, for example.

"I've heard books mention the concept of a magical signature before," he said, grabbing at one of her papers to glance over it, "but I never thought it was literal. You told me once, that you can learn to identify someone's, that you know mine. How?"

"I never understood it until I became a teacher," looking over her notes, she replied absently. "Magic leaves traces. I'll see the same spell cast a dozen times in a row by a dozen students, and they all look the same, have the same incantation, cause the same effects - but the traces it leaves behind, those are different. If there's enough power, if it's strong enough, you can sense it - hear it, feel it, almost taste it, even."

Immediately, he wondered what hers would feel like -  _taste_  like - and how long it would take himself to figure it out.

"Think of it like hearing a bunch of people all say the same word," she continued, "the pronunciation may be the same, but you'll learn to recognize the voices."

That, he admitted, was quite interesting. It did not surprise him to hear that amongst a crowd, even the simplest of spells he cast would stand out merely because they were  _his_  - he had learned early on that his magic was special, different,  _better_ , when compared to other people's. Still, he liked having it verbally confirmed. He reached across from her, grabbed the knife, and twirled it between his fingers. There was still some residue from the boomslang skin on it, he noticed, and reached for a cloth to wipe it away. Hermione's eyes never left his hand as he held it.

"Where did you get this?" He asked, examining the engravings of the handle - decorative swirls, but no distinctive markings. Often, when an item was built to be cursed, it had runes, symbols, or other identifying markers. This one did not, meaning it was either created as just a knife and cursed later, or it was meant to be inconspicuous.

He looked up. Her lips had pursed. "It was given to me, in a manner of speaking."

He arched a brow. "In a manner of speaking?"

She said nothing, but reached out to take the knife from his hands. Carefully shifting his grasp to the blade, he allowed her to take the handle. She purposefully placed it down on her opposite side, far away from him. He nearly scoffed.

It's not as though he had any desire to butcher her. If he had wanted to kill her(which he did not), he'd pick a much cleaner method - blood stains were difficult to get out of robes, and regardless, he didn't much care for the mess - or for the smell.

She was still quiet as she examined the parchment again and began to sketch out another runic pattern. Not particularly interested, he wasn't looking too closely. Though, he did recognize a rune typically associated with blood cleansing, another with pain, and one for the soul.

"You never told me what you know about my family," he prompted. Interrogation would be impractical and unwise at this time, he reminded himself repeatedly, but there was no harm in asking questions. As she so often liked to remind him, she was a teacher - it was her job. "Just over a week ago, I asked you what else you knew about my family, but you never told me because-"

"I remember," she interjected irritably, seemingly unpleased with the subject matter. "I know that your family does not determine who you are as a person and that you put too much stock into your ancestry."

"Humor me."

She was right, he knew. His father had been a worthless muggle, his mother an incompetent witch. The only notable ancestor he had was Slytherin himself, and while that was significant in signifying his place within the magical world, he could not deny that he felt somewhat distanced from Slytherin since the Chamber had closed. Still, it was  _his_  family. He deserved to know about them.

A sigh was her initial response. A moment later, she put her quill down and angled her torso back, turning to him once again. Her lips had formed a frown of uncertainty, as though she was unsure of what to say. "Not much," she finally settled on. "I know what happened with your mother, and what she did to your father. What he consequently did to her, as well. But I also know that your mum did everything she could to keep herself alive until you were born, for your sake - Stole family heirlooms and sold them to keep the two of you fed and sheltered. She gave up once she could without completely giving up on you too, I know, but you mattered to her. You were the very last thing she lived for."

The subsequent scoff and the eyeroll were uncontrollable, reflexive gestures. "How terribly romantic."

The word 'heirlooms' definitely caught his attention, though. Sitting on his right hand was the only Gaunt family heirloom he had known of, and if there were more he wouldn't deny he felt a compulsive need to collect those as well.

They were his birthright, and little as that was worth now, he fully intended to restore its value.

"What heirlooms?" He asked, not bothering to hide his material motivations through any false pretense of sentimentality. "And where did she sell them?"

If she were disappointed by his lack of consideration for the woman who had birthed him, she did not show it beyond a small frown. "A locket that had belonged to Slytherin. She had no idea how much it was worth, so she didn't get much for it. There was probably more than that, but I don't know what. She sold it to Borgin and Burkes."

At the mention of Slytherin, he perked up, duly noting that information before turning his attention back to the real task at hand. "How do you know this?"

"I'm nosy."

"So I've gathered. Certainly, you're rather good at it too. I'd be interested to learn your technique."

"I'm afraid that's not negotiable," she answered.

With that, she turned her back to him. Rolling the bits of parchment up, she began shoving them into her bag. Realizing she was about to just leave,  _again_ , he grabbed the first thing he could think of to use as a hostage - the knife.

In retrospect, that was probably a bad idea considering his intention was still to earn her complete and unfailing trust. At the very least, he could say he was not wielding it at her - just holding it to the table, caged beneath his fingers. It was not going anywhere and if she wanted to keep it, neither was she.

"Tom," she ground out, "please give me back my knife."

"You aren't in need of it."

Though she did not literally stamp her foot like a petulant child, he could hear her heel begin to grind against the stone floor as she struggled to restrain herself from throttling him.

In its own way, it was cute.

With a slight tilt of her head, she raised her chin.. "Do you want to guess what'll happen to your fingers if I  _accio_ that knife back?"

"I'd lose a few fingertips, no doubt," he replied with ease, not removing his hand, "but  _you_ would then have a knife flung in your direction, and I wouldn't bet money on your ability to catch it without injuring yourself, or on your willingness to trust my healing capabilities."

Crossing her arms over her chest, she shifted her weight on her feet and leaned against the table. "What are you playing at?" She asked.

"I'm just trying to have a conversation."

"And I'd like to leave."

"Then leave - I'm not stopping you."

"Then give me back my knife."

"I already told you: you are not in need of it."

"It's still mine."

"And I'm sure you'd like to keep it," he replied smoothly, "which can easily be arranged if you cooperate and talk with me."

Hostages were a wonderful invention, Tom decided.

Her eyes flickered quickly from him, to the knife under his hand, and then back to him. It looked like she had come to the same conclusion he had, albeit in different terms: that they were at an impasse.

If she wanted to, she could utilize her position of authority and take house points, or award detention, for his insolence. Though he knew her well enough to know she would not. The same morals that made her furious with herself for kissing him, for even wanting to kiss him in the first place, would eat away at her for abusing her position of power to punish him for something personal. Everything she did had to be justifiable by her own ethical code, arbitrary and hypocritical as it may be.

"This isn't productive," she finally said. He couldn't agree more. "Will you please just tell me what it is that you want from me?"

The frustration in her voice was growing steadily more prominent. Slowly, the volume began to raise and the pitch came a bit more shrill. Since the incident in the alcove, she'd been more guarded than usual. More careful. The only time he seemed to be able to force a candid reaction out of her was when he had pushed her to the limits of her patience - this was proving to be no exception.

"I just want to know you," he answered calmly. "You told me once that there's power in anonymity - but the more I've seen of you, the more clear it is that you're not after power at all. You're terrified, and you're hiding from something. I want you to tell me what it is."

In a show of defiance, she raised her chin. "No." She spoke very clear, in a firm tone he very rarely heard outside of the classroom. "You're being awful presumptuous about my life, and I don't have to tell you anything."

"If you think something will happen to you, or someone is trying to hurt you, I can offer you protection. But I need you to tell me everything," he countered, discarding her attempt at diversion.

"You've always said I'm paranoid," she argued, "why are you just now coming to the conclusion that I have valid reason to be?"

He wasn't even sure what he was about to say to that, but as the classroom door swung open, any potential response died in his throat. Since this was not her office or classroom, she couldn't lock the door without suspicion. Tom was now sure that was intentional, further evidenced by the relieved sigh he saw her give as her eyes turned to address the newest occupant of the room.

Slughorn, jolly and oblivious as ever, waltzed in with half a dozen half empty potion bottles clinking noisily in his arms.

"Oh, Hermione my dear! I forgot you were in here!" He exclaimed exuberantly, giving no notice to the sudden tension in the room or the way Hermione immediately took several steps back, away from Tom. "I'll just be in and out - just needed to drop off these bottles before I forget. And Tom m'boy, I suppose I should've guessed you'd be here too, shouldn't've I ? Very considerate of you, indeed, always offering a helping hand. Have you gone through any of those papers I gave you? The ones from the Ministry?"

At the beginning of the year, Slughorn had given him enough Ministry pamphlets to stuff his bag twice over. Luckily, they had been given to him in an enchanted folder. Auror training programs, secretarial work that promised 'an opportunity to climb the political ladder' - none of it held any interest for him. He vanished them as soon as he was out of the overly enthusiastic potion master's sight.

"I've looked," Tom lied politely. He swallowed his anger at having been interrupted down with a proper, but entirely dishonest, smile. "I'm still considering it, I'm afraid. Haven't made a decision yet. I'm sure you understand how important of a choice it is."

Slughorn let out a deep belly laugh, still no consideration or acknowledgement of what he had walked in on. "That it is! But I'd be happy to deliberate with you, if you'd like. Or, Professor Granger, I'm sure you'd be willing as well. Perhaps make it a team effort, eh?"

Much too polite for Tom's liking, Hermione replied with a demeanor that mirrored his own. "I'd be delighted," she said with painfully forced sincerity. "Though, I'm afraid it'll have to wait. I was just packing up to head back to my office. Tom, hand me that knife, would you?"

With an audience present, he knew he could not refuse. Handing it over, he grit his teeth even as he smiled.

"Of course."

Her eyes sparkled with self satisfaction as she accepted it back. "Thank you," she cheerfully replied with a mockingly genuine smile.

After securing the knife within its holder and stuffing it back into her bag, she looked brightly up at their still oblivious and annoyingly present guest. "Thank you again, Horace, for allowing me your classroom on such short notice."

"Not to worry, dear! Not to worry. You know I only love to encourage your academic pursuits! And I'm sure Tom appreciated the opportunity to learn a thing or two."

Her smile tightened. "Well, I appreciate it nevertheless, but I really must be going now. Goodnight Horace, Riddle. " She nodded curtly to both of them before she exited the room.

Slughorn hummed a jolly tune as he loudly dropped the glass bottles into the classroom sink. "Lovely woman, isn't she? Truthfully, Headmaster Dippet was a bit apprehensive about her age at first, but she's proven to be such a gem for our dear school."

"Yes, sir." Tom gripped the table next to him until his knuckles turned white. "She most certainly is."

* * *

New tactic. New plan.

If Hermione would not give up her information willingly, not even through careful coaxing, he'd have to search elsewhere. Anywhere. Everywhere.

Even if it meant the source was as unpleasant as it was potentially unreliable.

Though it practically killed him to do it, Tom arrived to Dumbledore's class early and approached the desk.

As was usual in these types of situations, he was offered a candy - this time, an acid pop.

As was also usual, he declined it.

With the formalities over, Dumbledore turned his full attention back to the student in front of him. "Is something on your mind, Tom?"

"In a way, yes" Tom answered, forcing his voice to remain calm and unbothered, "though it's merely curiosity, I must confess. You see, I was speaking with some other students the other night, and I heard a bit of a rumor that I was hoping you could shed some light on."

Though he watched the other man closely, looking for any indication that he was nervous, or hiding something, or lying, he saw nothing. There was no twitching or coughing, no stuttering. Though, for a moment Tom swore that maddening eye twinkle looked just a bit brighter for a second.

"Is that so?" Dumbledore asked not unkindly. "I'm intrigued to hear what the imagination of young minds can conjure. Please, do go on. I'll confess, I have a bit of an ear for gossip."

"Well," said Tom, cracking a perfectly in character boyish grin, "I'm afraid it's not all too interesting. Just that you used to be Professor Granger's professor as well. Is that true?"

The intensity with which he observed the man across from him only increased, though he did his best not to show it.

"You spend a fair amount of time with her, do you not? Is there any reason you haven't asked her?"

Tom felt his mask crack for just a fraction of a second before he recovered. "She dislikes talking about herself, and I try to respect that."

Looking straight ahead, he irrationally felt much like he had as an eleven year old child, standing beside a burning wardrobe with a box of stolen goods in his hands.

Dumbledore, however, merely smiled at him. "How considerate of you."

Acknowledging the condescension he was sure was there, Tom said nothing.

"I've had many students over the years, Tom. And I'm sure to have many more." He then gave Tom a very knowing look, one which many would have interpreted as kind, but that only furthered Tom's suspicions that he was being taunted. "I noticed you finished the book for this course. How did you like it?"

Tom forced his muscles to relax, and his face to remain amicable. "It was very insightful, sir."

Politely excusing himself with the false premise of needing to relieve himself before class, Tom found the first available empty corridor and harshly smashed his fist against the stone wall.

It was muggle. He knew that. Wizards did not often solve their problems with their fists, always turning to wands and duels instead. Still, there was something uniquely gratifying about feeling destruction against one's skin that could not be achieved in the same way with magic, comparable to how even the most magnificently cast  _Scrougify_ was inferior to a genuine wash, or how "true love" could not be concocted.

Taking a deep, controlled inhale, he held it for a count of seven.

He healed the broken, bleeding skin of his knuckles. He finger-combed his hair back into place.

He walked back to class.

* * *

The too vague and too coincidentally relevant answer that Dumbledore gave only pushed Tom further into his suspicions, prompting further investigation.

Now, he needed evidence. Theories were useful but they were merely that: theories. He needed something solid. Tangible. Something that could not be refuted. Proof.

While he did not know exactly what he was looking for, Tom recalled the details listed in the book(limited as they were) and used them to form something of an idea.

The theory had been very clear that a charmed device would be needed. There was no other way to stabilize magic to apply the necessary precision to move through the chosen amount of time(no closer or further), taking only the individual themselves(and whatever chosen belongings, such as clothing, they may have on their person at the time). No matter how talented a single witch or wizard, the process of attempting such a feat with only oneself and a wand would have disastrous results, potentially flinging the caster much further than they intended, or destroying them in the process, bits and pieces scattered across time.

A device. That narrowed it down.

Something small enough to be taken with the user narrowed it down even more - if it were merely a machine someone stepped into, they'd be trapped with no way back. If it was possible to return to their own time, the device would have to be small enough to be easily handled.

With that idea in mind, he used his free period to go back to her private room, again, and search. He didn't bother with her office first. She would never be careless enough to leave something so valuable, so incriminating, in a room she knew he searched through regularly. Her bedroom, however, she still wasn't aware he could access on his own. The one time he had gone through it, he was careful to leave it just as he had found it.

After a thorough investigation of the room, twice, he still found nothing. Nothing suspicious, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that he hadn't seen last time(with the less than notable exception of some carefully wadded, slightly reddened toilet paper in the bathroom rubbish bin. _That_ , he felt no need to investigate, though he did wash his hands).

Fisting his hands through his hair, he flopped onto the bed with an exasperated groan. Later, he'd fix the bedding, make it look just as pretty and perfect and unused as it had before he came in. Now, he hardly gave a damn. Lifting his wrist, he checked his watch. Twenty minutes left before she came back.

He allowed his hand to fall over the edge of the bed as he contemplated what to do next.

Before he could catch it, his ring slipped from his finger and clattered noisily to the floor. Despite the uselessness of the gesture, he tossed a glare in the direction of the discarded ring. He knew he should have charmed it to fit to size, he scolded himself as he lifted off the mattress and crouched to the floor.

As it had fallen under the bed, he didn't see it immediately. He cast a  _lumos_  with his wand, looking for the distinctive glint of the gold band reflecting the light. With that, it didn't take him long to find it, but he noticed something else as he went to reach for it.

The small beaded bag that Hermione had shoved under the bed frame was still there, though he had more or less forgotten about it. He hardly considered it interesting, and he knew it was unlikely to be able to hold much more than maybe a wallet and a tube of lipstick, but he had searched everything else already and he had twenty minutes left to look. It also wasn't like he could find himself any more disappointed than he already was, so it wasn't exactly a risk even by emotional means.

Without another moment of consideration, he grabbed it as well.

It did not take him twenty minutes to find incriminating evidence. It did not even take him twenty seconds to do so.

He had been right. Time travel. Impossible as it was, he  _literally_  had the proof in the bag.

The small, beaded satchel had an undetectable extension charm applied to it, and a damn good one too - the thing was practically a black hole. He took a moment, and only a moment, to berate himself for his ignorance, for thinking like a muggle and not searching it sooner, before he pushed the thought from his mind. The bag had been a goldmine, and his time to search it limited.

Though he had twenty minutes, he only took five. He rummaged through the bag, through all the books with publishing dates that hadn't passed yet, newspapers that has yet to be published, through the broken bits of artifacts, the excessive amount of sentimental photographs she kept away in a scrapbook, the muggle clothing even more unusual than those in her wardrobe, until he found what he  _knew_ had to be what he was looking for.

From the long, thin chain of a necklace dangled a pendant formed of two interlocking rings. Anchored within the inner ring was a disk containing a flippable hourglass. Along the sides of the pendant were the printed words,

' _I mark the hours, every one, nor have I yet outrun the sun. My use and value unto you, are gauged by what you have to do'_

He was careful about handling it. He didn't even have to perform a charm to detect for magic - like Hermione had said, he could just  _feel_ that it was there. Not wanting to accidentally trigger it somehow, he held onto it gently, touching only the chain as he tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. The bag was small enough he was able to shove it into the pocket of his robe, the black fabric easily concealing the slight bulge it caused.

His hands were shaking as he left her room.

* * *

Tom was careful before he approached her office. He knew that there was a solid chance this conversation would not go smoothly, and he didn't want to risk being interrupted before it resolved.

Deciding it was best to put as many safeguards in place as possible, he started with something simple: a diversion in the opposite hallway of the same floor to lure away the portraits. Specifically, he told Mulciber(who conveniently had a free period, as did most seventh years) that Nott had his Arithmancy homework from when he was in the infirmary two days previously, and that he was practicing for his charms exam in one of the abandoned classrooms on the sixth floor, not coincidentally on the adjacent wing from Professor Granger's office. What he deliberately did not mention was that Olympia Goyle, Mulciber's betrothed, had decided to join him.

(Even if Mulciber were oblivious enough to his fiancee's distaste for him, he was not so poorly socialized as to be unable to comprehend what it means when another man puts a hand up the skirt of his wife-to-be.)

Though he could have caused a scene in just about any other way(made a first year wet themselves, started a fire, lured Peeves into the corridor and asked him to hold any object weighing more than half a bludger - truly, the options were plentiful), there was nothing to excite the medieval portraits like the good, old fashioned gore associated with two men attempting to kill one another over the affection of a woman. He estimated that though they'd  _all_ be drawn to the scene, maybe a fifth would make a show of attempting to alert the Deputy Headmaster or the caretaker, maybe another fourth would attempt to diffuse the situation, but at least a solid half would just sit back and enjoy the performance.

His prediction was proven to be accurate.

With his remaining time, he took the opportunity to thoroughly ward her office. First, with just simple silencing charms applied to the walls and door, preventing noise from both coming in and going out of the office.

The second enchantment was a bit more complex - still easily accomplished by his own standards, but a bit more complicated.

After reading about the muggle repellent wards placed around Hogwarts, Tom began to question how easy it would be to tweak them. After becoming Head Boy, he made it a priority to further investigate so he could apply a modified version of the charm to his door, preventing needy students from disrupting his well earned rest.

The wards, as  _Hogwarts: A History_ had so helpfully described, worked by effectively weaponizing distraction. Any time a muggle neared the school, they'd suddenly find themselves remembering a dentist appointment they had set up, or that they needed to go grocery shopping, urgently,  _now,_ and find themselves walking determinedly in the opposite direction of the building. His modified version worked in much the same manner, except it didn't only affect muggles, but anyone who attempted to disturb him by knocking.

If he now had to open his door without touching it, it was a small price to pay in exchange for undisturbed rest.

Based on how soundly he'd been sleeping as of late, he assumed his experiment had proven itself a success, and applied the same warding enchantment to her door as well. Then, so that  _she_ would not be the one deterred from entering, left the door wide open and settled himself on the couch.

The warding and diversion, from start to finish, took thirteen minutes. Classes would be done for the day in two. It would take her maybe another ten, estimating generously, to finish packing up her class and get back to the office.

Fingers wrapping around the golden chain in his pocket, he attempted to calm himself and settle back against the cushions as he waited.

After what felt like an eternity, she came back.

Before even greeting him, she gave the open door a glance entirely lacking in subtlety, and then(presumably when her eyes alone could find nothing wrong with it), another.

"Why is my door open?" She looked over to him from where she lingered in the doorway. "Don't you tell people you study in here because it's more private than the library? Wouldn't having this wide open completely blow that cover?"

He blinked. "I'd rather people didn't think I was hiding," he quickly supplied.

Much too slowly for his liking, she cautiously stepped through the doorway. He counted her steps until she was far enough into the room for him to use magic to close(and then lock) the door behind her.

She jumped at the sound, turning back to him with wide eyes and a hand placed against her chest.

His response was a tight lipped smile. "Better?"

She gave yet another sideways glance to the door before shaking her head. "Absolutely not."

With a few strides across the room, she sat at her desk. He waited a few minutes(or, he thought he did), before speaking up.

"Hermione?"

He licked his lips. "I think there's something we need to talk about."

She looked up only to give him a cold stare. "Then talk."

"I'd rather you came over here first." He motioned to the space on couch next to him.

"Actually," she said quickly, tone significantly now high pitched, "I just remembered - I need to speak with Professor Binns about the detention supervision schedule." In a swift and ungraceful motion, she jumped from her chair and began to walk back towards the door.

Immediately, he sat up, ready to protest, but then as soon as her hand touched the doorknob, her eyes glazed over for just a fraction of a second. "Actually," she said with a slightly dazed tone, turning back to the desk, "I need to sort through last week's homework first."

As she sat back down, he bit the inside of his cheeks to forcibly restrain his grin. Oh, this was just  _delightful._

The repellent charm worked both ways. Just as others could not enter, she could not leave until he allowed it.

"No," he said conversationally, pulling the chain from his pocket, "I think we're going to talk now."

She looked up just as he fully revealed the necklace, expression shifting from one of indignance to a look of shocked horror. His lips quirked. "I think you would have some explai-"

Before he could even finish his sentence, her wand was out and aimed directly at him.

" _Sectumsempra."_

She whispered it softly, but with determination. Somewhat alarmed, he realized he had never heard of that spell before.

With a fierce slashing motion, a flash of white light was flying his way. It was pure skill that he was able to throw up a shield in time to block it. As he looked to the couch cushion beside him that had not been fortunate enough to be protected, he saw that the curse had cut all the way through to the framing. He swallowed.

Looking up, he saw her wand still raised and expression hard as stone. He was already on his feet by the time the next curse cast, blocking it with only moderate difficulty now that he felt prepared.

Though she had begun casting silently, he noted the colors of the spells leaving her wand, and the movements used to make them. No Unforgivables. She was scared - terrified - certainly, but she did not truly want to harm him. Or more likely, that she realized she could not, because for an Unforgivable to be correctly cast she'd have to  _mean_ it. Despite her situation, she didn't.

He took pride in knowing that, though now was not the time to devote attention to it.

When making his next decision, he was certain of one thing: he absolutely could not validated her fear. That would probably be the least productive thing he could do at this point, aside from killing or irreparably harming her.

After blocking another spell, he took the opportunity to cast his own. " _Expelliarmus."_

He said it out loud, clearly, so she understood his intention. As he did, her face took on an almost affectionate gleam before she discarded the look and fired another spell.

He dodged it, allowing it to collide with one of the bookshelves. The result was a resounding bang, and a colossal mess of splintered wood and torn paper.

With that, they stood in uncertain silence, wands raised.

"I'm not going to hurt you." He attempted to placate her.

She did not waver. "Then put your wand down."

He licked his lips. "That would be unwise," he drawled. "I said that  _I'm_ not going to hurt  _you_. You, however, seem a bit too eager to curse me for my liking."

As if to demonstrate his point, she silently fired a curse straight at his head. Not wanting to test if this unidentified curse even  _could_ be blocked by a shield, he took the safe route and ducked. Sweat began to form at his brow, though he made no movement to wipe it away.

As the curse collided with the wall, it left a sizzling scorch mark in its wake. Since she wouldn't, he knew he'd have to be the one to call a house elf to clean that later.

"Hermione," he tried again as he threw a harmless Leg-Locker Jinx in her direction, and then in quick succession, an  _Incarcerous_. Predictably, she jumped over both the jinx and the conjured ropes. "I'm your friend - you don't want to hurt me. You know that."

"What choice are you giving me?" She asked while firing a stunning spell.

With a quick  _Protego,_ he blocked it. "For Merlin's sake," he growled, patience thinning, " _use your head_! I've used spells more harmful than this in dueling club. All I'm doing is protecting myself. If I wanted to hurt you, truly, don't you think I'd have done it by now?"

For a brief moment, she stilled before continuing her assault. "Of course you can't kill me, nor torture me into insanity. That would be counterproductive. You can't kill me until you're done with me, and you don't have the information you want yet. Don't play me for a fool!"

"I'm well aware you're not a fool, I don't want information, and I'm never going to be 'done with you,'" he countered, still blocking and dodging the incoming spells. "I'm trying to protect you. All I want is you. Just you. Let me help you. Let me keep you safe."

"I've been just fine on my own. I don't need protecting." She crouched behind the armchair.

He grit his teeth. "The Ministry will come for you if they know what you are."

"Is that a threat?"

"No," he said, slowly coming closer, "it's a fact.  _That_ is what I'm trying to protect you from. Minister himself be damned,  _nothing_ is taking you from me."

Suddenly, she stood. "I am  _not_ something you own!"

Another spell, another block. "No," he said - it was only partially a lie - semantics and legalities aside, "you're my friend, and I'm not going to just let you get hurt."

At that, she faltered. Her wand hand, still raised, trembled just slightly. Her eyes glistened with uncertainty, and he watched her attempt to swallow it down.

Not missing the opportunity, he took his shot.

" _Expelliarmus."_

While the incantation came out soft, a gentle murmur, the effect was instantaneous. Her wand flew from her hand and sailed across the room in a delicate arch, where he caught it with ease.

As she watched her wand enter his grasp, she looked more afraid than he had ever seen her before.

He shoved both wands into his robe pocket, then held his hands up in a show of surrender.

"No wands," he said as soothingly as possible, "it's okay, we're just going to talk."

Closing the distance between them, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Now why don't we just sit down and-"

She jerked out of his grasp like the contact had burned her. " _Stay the fuck away from me_ ," she hissed. Her whole body was trembling. Shaking like a leaf in the middle of a thunderstorm. Her chest rose and fell with a frantic, uneven pace.

Just by the look of her, he could see that she was not even remotely stable.

Taking it upon himself to fix her, he transferred both wands from his robe to his trouser pocket, then shucked the robe off his shoulders as quickly as possible. Taking the robe, he pulled it over her shoulders tightly.

' _Evenly distributed pressure over the body increases serotonin production and reduces nervous system activity, calming the body,'_ that was what she had told him last year. He had looked into the subject a bit more and discovered, predictably, that she had been correct. Now, he planned to put the knowledge to use.

"What are you-"

"Helping," he interrupted, answering her unfinished question as she squirmed within the grasp of the robe(If it also happened to act like something of a straitjacket, that was helpful as well - he had no desire to have to dodge punches), attempting to wriggle out of it. "Deep touch pressure - you told me about it last year - it can help a panicking person relax." Looking up at him with a mix of curiosity and apprehension, she calmed, though only somewhat.

Using the restraining grip of the robe, he guided her over to the couch(remarkably, only a small bit had been damaged, but they'd worry about that later) and pushed her gently onto one of the cushions before placing himself beside her.

Later, he might question her sudden compliance, but for now he chalked it up to her state of shock, current lack of a wand, and underlying (albeit reluctant) trust in him. Letting go of the robe, he watched as she used her own hands to hold it snugly against her, gripping it like a lifeline.

She was still shaking. He needed to remedy that. Calmly, keeping his eyes level with her own, he asked, "How long before the full moon must a wolfsbane potion be taken to be effective?"

"Shut it," she snapped, eyes blazing. "That's not going to work, and I don't want your help."

Ignoring her remark that it wouldn't work(it had worked for him, after all), he continued. "True as that may be, you need it."

Still clutching the sides of his robe, she glared at him. He glared back.

He glanced over to her desk. One way or another, he was going to fix this.

" _Accio Calming Draught,_ " he whispered, easily catching the phial as it dislodged itself from her desk and flew across the room towards him.

Hermione reared back with wide eyes. "I am not drinking that."

Head dropping for just a second, he let out an exasperated sigh before looking back up at her with an incredulous expression. "You heard me summon it. You know what it is."

Pulling the robe around her tighter, she raised her chin in defiance. "I  _know_ that you were in my office before I got here, and I also know that you can say one spell while casting another, and that you can glamour the appearance of a potion. I have no idea what's in that phial, and I am  _not_ drinking it."

His jaw ticked. Her paranoia was infuriating.

' _Desperate times,_ ' he contemplated very briefly. Then he struck.

In a motion so quick that not even her hypersensitive reflexes could have blocked it, he used his forearms to keep her arms pinned and his body weight to keep her legs immobile. In one hand, he held her jaw, tilting it upwards and forcing it open. In the other, he held the phial. He uncorked it with his teeth and then proceeded to tilt it against her lips, effectively forcing the potion into her mouth.

Then, he dropped the phial and used both hands to force her jaw closed again. "Swallow."

He realized a moment too late that closing her jaw was not enough. Pushing the liquid from her lips, she promptly spat it into his face.

He blinked. " _That_ ," he drawled, releasing his grip to wipe his face, "was just childish."

Saying nothing, she continued to glare at him, pushing herself back further into the couch as though she could disappear into the cushions.

Unsure of what to do, he stared at her. At her somewhat glassy looking and yet firmly defiant eyes, at the blush that traveled down her chest - more likely from exertion than embarrassment or arousal. As he did: he came to a very comforting conclusion: he did not need her compliance. Not in this exact moment.

It would come in due time. He already had exactly what he needed to force her trust: leverage.

The book had been clear that intentional time travelers came back with a purpose, a goal, and that they inserted themselves into the lives of certain individuals in the hopes of changing the future. That individual, he was certain, was himself. He had always been destined for greatness, and she was here to help him achieve it. She had broken the laws of space and time(and of the Ministry, no doubt), to deposit herself directly into his lap.

Age and technical authority aside, he was the one with the power here. He had no need to force information from her, because she was here  _for_  him - she would make right the wrongs that led her here. And he, he could hold that future she had escaped over her, dangling it above her head, forcing her to prevent him from causing it.

Something must have shown in his expression, because she suddenly paled, blinking amber eyes shedding tears down her cheeks.

"Now, now," he gently chided her, wiping the tears from her cheeks with his thumb, "no need to cry. I'm not going to hurt you, remember?"

"You," she said quietly, coldly, "have ruined my life. And you don't even know the half of it."

There more anger to her tone than sadness.

He ran an affectionate hand over her hair. She shuddered. As he moved closer, she pushed herself even further back into the cushions. It did not deter him.

He scooted closer still, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. Ignoring the way she tensed and trembled underneath him, he wound a hand through the curls near her scalp, threading the hair through his fist. He pressed his lips softly against her hairline.

Smiling against her hair, he murmured, "this is going to be so good for us, you'll see that soon enough."

He continued to hold her as her body began to rack with sobs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:
> 
> \- Fun(ish?) fact: the words printed on the time turner are technically canon. I got an official time turner replica as a gift that I am absolutely not nerdy enough to wear in public, but it was expensive so I had to use it somehow.
> 
> Update as of 6/2/19: this fic is not abandoned, but it is on hiatus while I explore other projects.


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